


Dear Mr. Coulson

by Agent C (arh581958)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Challenging Phil's straightness, Circus, Don't Touch Lola, First Meeting, Kid!Fic, M/M, Nick Fury is a good friend, Phil has a daughter, Straight!Phil, The Bus, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Tension, bodyguard!clint, boss!phil, secretary!clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Agent%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Fury is a good friend which is why he sends Clint on an underground mission to protect one of his dearest friends. Clint thinks the assignment is going to be a walk in the park but then he meets the unassuming Mr. Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I always wanted a Secretary AU but then still have a BAMF!Clint so I decided to put the two together.
> 
> Little Background: Phil and Fury have been friends for years. Phil's job is very important and sometimes he deals with bad people. For now, I'll keep his job a secret. You'll find out through the rest of the story. He's also a bit rich but he doesn't really flaunt it. I'm still debating whether or not he made the riches or he inherited the riches or maybe even both. Phil is still in suits because, well, he likes suits. 
> 
> Isabelle is five. She talks funny because she's five.

"I've got a job for you." Fury says to Hawkeye in lieu of a greeting.

"Yeah?" The archer takes the manila envelope from the director's hands. He thought that this time he would be gone for good after the last Op went south. He diverged from his assigned perch and found one with better view of the targets and less civilian casualties but it risked his visibility. He thought the shadows would have been enough but he got made. The mission ended up with Sinclair getting two weeks medical leave for a broken rib.

He opened the envelop and pulled out the first file. "You're putting me on guard dog duty?" The first page of the document read loud and clear that person of interest was a civilian. It said so on the file: aged 40, lost his spouse one year ago, and has a daughter in kindergarten. Nothing about the mousy haired man stuck him as threatening.

"Look, sir, I know the last Op didn't go smoothly but you _can't,_ you just _can't_ , drop me like a rag doll on a civilian protection detail! I'm a level four agent, sir. Civi protection is for puppies!" he protested.

"On the contrary" Nick said in a matter-of-fact tone. "You can consider this a level promotion, Barton.  I understand that this is not your cup of tea but I prefer it if you look the other way for now. This man right here is one of my dearest and oldest comrades. There have been recent threats against his life and I would rather not lose another friend when I can sure as hell do something to stop it."

Clint cocked his head to the side, realizing that he would finally have one up from the Nick Fury himself. "I thought that was against protocol, sir?" he asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Resources are free to be used for my discretion, Agent." Nick narrowed his eyes and an expression which clearly said _because I'm the fucking director of the fucking organization_. "This will not be official business, strictly off the books. It might be your most difficult assignment yet because you will be unable to use our resources. The time you put into this assignment will be logged on as a training exercise under my supervision."

"So does that mean that whatever time I spend on the assignment, I can count it against the required number of training hours?"

There was a heavy sigh from the older man. "Yes" he said finally with growing wrinkle on his forehead.

Clint grinned, lifting the corners of his mouth from ear-to-ear like an idiot. "You've for yourself a deal, Director Fury."

"Excellent" the director confirmed. "Here are the parameters of your mission. You will be posing as his new secretary-slash-personal assistant. Think Pepper Potts to Tony Stark. You will be required to take note of his schedule, his screen his appointments, background check his staff, and are expected to be with him at all times of the day until the secondary team has given it the all clear."

" _Exactly_ like Ms. Potts, sir?" he said with a grin.

Fury raised his eyebrow. "Professionally, Barton." he replied without missing a beat.

Clint laughed. "Secondary team, sir?"

"I'll be running another Op to track down origin of the threats. You'll receive confirmation whether or not the threat has been neutralized. That's all you need to know."

Clint frowned. He didn't like being kept in the dark during mission but sometimes the compartmentalization ensured the sanity of the agents. He nodded. "Alright, sir, when do I start?"

"I've already informed him before hand of your the assignment. For now, I'd like you to stick close to him and monitor every single person he makes contact with on daily basis. I expect weekly reports."

"That's awfully presumptuous of you, sir. What if I didn't take it?" He asked, sweeping over the Director's facade.

"I can be very persuasive." Fury waved his hand dismissively. "Now go! You don't want to be late for your new job."

 

***

 

The file instructed him to 'dress-down' so Clint changed out of his field suit. He didn't have a suit and tie, much less anything that was anything near business-like. He decided to put on a well-worn purple pull-over, old jeans, and purple converse. He kept the kevlar vest underneath because it pays to be prepared for any situation. He swung his guitar-shaped bow case, looking every bit like a struggling busker which he was pretending to be.

He took a bus to the address in he had already memorized. The nearest bus stop was five blocks away from the house. It was a telltale sign of a rich neighbourhood: public transportation located on the outskirts of the area because people who lived in these parts had cars to drive them all over the place. Stuck-up bunch of asses, all of them. He frowned. He'd been getting weird looks from the neighbours from the moment he alighted the bus. How the hell had Fury become friends with a guy like this?

The estate was gi-normous. He'd never been to a house this big before. It was like a freaking mansion in Malibu! It came complete with a red-brick fence, black cast iron gates, and a c-shaped drive way. It was a castle. Damn, this guy must be really rich. He scowled. He remembered how much Tasha complained when she first for the Stark-assignment. Guys like this and Tony Stark could afford a whole private military with the kind of money they rake in.

He tensed up. He must have been loitering around too long because he heard the police engines headed his was. He fumbled for the buzzer and waited. The intercom made a funny noise then crackled to life.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, uhm, I'm Clint Clint. I sent here by Nick Fury."

There was a long pause. "Mr. Clint, we're been expecting you. Please come through the gates."

The massive gazes swung open and let him inside. There was a 'click' and he knew the gates were properly closed again. 'Automatic locks', he noted mentally. He would need to re-check the codes for encryptions in case of an external hacker. He thought of possible firewalls and additional encryptions to bump up the security as he made his way to the large double-doors. He also scanned the surrounding area for alternative entry points to  the estate. The door swung open before he could lift his hand to knock.

"Mr. Clint" a short brunette woman opened the door with a warm smile. The smile faded when she saw his appearance. "Please come in." She said, failing to mask the distain in her voice. Clint just pressed his lips together. Even the help were arrogant enough to give him condescending judgements.

She guided him through the very first room on the right. "Would you like something to drink?" she forced a smile.

"I'm good. Thanks." Clint politely decline her offering. He has judgements too. He won't trust a complete stranger to feed him anything, especially in hostile territory.

She shook her head and mumbled something under her breath. He couldn't hear it properly, "Please refrain from... _touching_ anything. I should inform you that the house is closely monitored. Good day, Mr. Clint."

It was a large open room with several plush couches, arm chairs, and a love seat by the fire place. It was done in warm colours of green, brown, and blue, against the pale cream wallpaper. A large wooden bookshelf was pushed against the wall beside the door. Clint sat himself comfortable in the loveseat and propped up his feet on what he assumed was a foot stool. Even the fire place was lit, giving the room a bit of warmth.

The door opened.

Clint expected a stoic man based on the man's bland expression on the portfolio he'd been given. Mr. Coulson struck him as a no-nonsense man.

"Sir" Clint greeted promptly, standing up to face the door. The man who stood in front of him looked exactly like that in the photo. He has mousy brown hair, a high forehead, strong cheek bones, a chiselled jaw, and the softest blue eyes Clint's ever seen.  He gave Clint a bland smile and extended his hand forward.

"Phil. Phil Coulson" his temporary boss introduced himself. Stunned, Clint lapsed for a second before reaching out his hand for a handshake. Coulson's hand was warm and firm. Clint consciously steadied his breathing. It was only the second time he'd received this kind of handshake, strong and confident without being proud nor threatening. The first time it happened was with Fury.

"Clint. Clint Barton, uhm, sir."

"Pleasure to meet you Barton. You must be from Nick's security firm." Phil said without breaking his smile. "I'm sure you'll do a good job."

"I'll do my best, sir."

Phil made a non-committal noise. "Well then. Let's get Ginny to prepare you a suit. You can't come to the office like that. It'll cause too much suspicion. I've read your cover profile. You are supposed to be my new secretary, fresh from graduate school. How old are you?"

"I'm thirty-six, sir."

Phil blinked. "Wow. You don't look a day over twenty-five. Twenty-eight might even be pushing it."

Clint blushed. He wasn't used to being complimented for anything other than his marksmanship. "You don't look so bad yourself, sir. You know what they say: life begins at forty."

"Come on" Phil said between his chuckles. "Follow me."

Clint was led to through the corridors. He'd get lost if it weren't for the floor plans included in the file because the house felt bigger on the inside. Phil pointed to the important room like the kitchen, the dining area, the library, his home office, several half-baths, and the bedrooms. He led Clint to the largest one at the end of the corridor.

"This is my room." he said, motioning for Clint to enter after him. The room opened to small receiving area and two doors. Clint knew one led to the adjourning home office. The second one must lead into the real bedroom. Phil led him into the in suite bathroom which was also a very large walk-in closet. Damn this man was filthy rich. So rich that it made his skin shiver with the sheer luxuriousness of everything.

"Master Coulson" a petite young read-head greeted. She too was wearing a black-and-white maid uniform like the brunette from earlier. She held up two suits in her hands and a pair of shoes beside the ottoman. "I've selected these from your old collection. They have not been in rotation for two seasons." she said with a small smile. She glanced over to Clint and quirked her lips just a little bit higher.

"Excellent, Ginny." Phil praised. "That is all. You are dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." She did a small curtsy before handing the two pieced of clothing on a rack and exited with a quiet click of the outer door.

Phil takes his time, like a man who didn't have a schedule, and brings both suits at eye level. He squinted at each one angling his head from side to side and played dress-up doll in his brain. He settled on the black satin ensemble with a black waist coat, a crisp white shirt, and a striped black and grey tie. He also picks up the black leather shoes. It's a nice and simple combination that wouldn't attract too much attention on either side of the spectrum. He hands them both to Clint and turns around

"You can cha---" he stopped mid-sentence.

Clint is used to changing quickly. He learned it during his circus days in between succeeding acts and in the field whether it be for surveillance or because he was fatally injured (again). He hadn't bothered to think about something as superficial as his body during mission. As far as he was concerned, this was another field assignment except with a different view. He was down to his drawers by the time Phil and turned back to face him. Shock clearly registered on the older man's face. He scrambled to cover up, feeling the man's contagious embarrassment all of a sudden.

"Oh sorry, sir, shit. I thought you meant---" he paused, pulling on the slacks in one fluid movement. He carefully tucked himself in and zipped up before continuing. "I thought you meant that I needed to change _now._ So I, uhm, we usually do this quick and easy on the field. So I, uh, sorry sir. Do I need to leave? Go somewhere maybe?"

Phil was silently gawking at him. "No, I--I'll wait for you outside--in my office" he coughed. "Please go out when you're decent. And do something about your hair. Use whatever products you need." he practically stomped all the way to the door, making it bang when it closed. Clint flinched. He hadn't meant to offend the guy. Jesus, Fury was going to demote his ass when he gets back. With a groan, he hurriedly put the rest of the clothing on.

The suit was a bit tight on the arms but he could manage. He could rip the seams easy worse comes to worst. He fixed his hair first with some gel he found on the sink before picking up his old clothes and heading out. He wore the kevlar vest underneath the shirt so it wouldn't be seen through the waist coat. He felt stuffy. He didn't like suits. He wasn't good in them either. Ugh. If this was his everyday attire for the entire duration of the mission, he would go crazy.

"Uhm, sir?" he called out, peaking into the bedroom but he man was nowhere in sight. Oh right, where did he say he'll be again? Office, yeah. He ventured further into the receiving area where there was a faint click clacking of a keyboard. He followed the light streaming out from the adjourning home office.

"Sir? May I come in?" He waited for a response before stepping inside.

"Come in" Phil yelled from beyond the door.

Clint pushed the door open with his finger and tentatively peered into room. Phil was seated behind a large wooden desk, laptop rested in front of him with his fingers clicking so fast he could probably type faster than the analysts in the office. The man immediately stopped when he saw Clint. For a moment, he actually looked stunned.

"Sir?" Clint found himself asking tentatively. He felt a little bit embarrassed as Coulson's eyed him from head to toe. "I, uhm, it's a bit tight on the arms. Sorry, sir. I've got arms of a gorilla."

Phil waves him off. "No, no, it's fine. We'll have Fred come by the office with some materials. He can suit you up properly so you won't be self-conscious  in the office. Don't worry, he's great. You'll blend right in. Come in. Come in." Phil motioned him to enter. "Please take a seat. I'd like to go over some the house rules with you. I want to discuss what exactly you will be doing."

"Ah, yes sir, sure sir."  he sat himself down on one of the plush leather sofa's.

 "First off, I assume that you've noticed my limited staff. That is entirely by choice. I prefer a small but efficient number. I am very careful man, Clint. I value trust and honestly. I personally interviewed each and every member of this household. You're asking questions will only rouse undue suspicion so I highly suggest that you get friendly with my people. Now, please tell me the parameters of your assignment."

Clint took a moment before speaking. He didn't know just exactly how high Coulson's security clearance was. But seeing as he personally knew Fury, and the fact that he was both the client and the mark for this mission, he gave an abridged version of his instructions. "Monitor and protect, sir. My instructions were to go undercover as your secretary and evaluate the risk-level of these threats."

Phil clicked a few more times on his keyboard. "Understood but I will not have you harassing any of my household or staff. I prefer to keep this discreet. As far as they are concerned, everyone believes that you are a grad student. Please maintain your cover even while inside the house. Have you been informed of the sleeping arrangements?"

"Confirmed. But, sleeping arrangements, sir?" Clint inquired. That had clearly been a surprise. Nothing in his mission brief mentioned anything about sleeping arrangements. Does Coulson expect him to sleep in the same room as well? Not that he wouldn't mind. He could see the residual muscle underneath those tailored suits. Shut it, Barton, keep it professional! He scolded himself.

"Yes" Phil answered. "You'll be sleeping in the room right across from mine. It would be terrible commute in and out of the city. Plus, according to Nick, it would allow you to keep an eye on things even during the night. Not that, I expect you to take night watch or anything.  I just thought it would make things easier if you didn't have to travel back and forth every single day. I know it's a long ride here."

"I--thank you, sir." Clint said with astonishment. Was this guy even real? How the hell is he friends with Nick Fury? "Permission to pack some of my things for the move. Can I at least get my personal effects? I can do it during the off-peak or something."

"Uh, sure, Barton. That will be fine. Permission granted. Just inform me when you'll be leaving."

"Thank you, sir" he replied, eying the clock. He had memorized Coulson's schedule on the bus ride here. The man had cleared his morning schedule and his first meeting was at ten in the morning. It was currently eight am. "I do believe you have a meeting at ten, sir. Shall I get the car started?"

Phil looked a little bit surprised but then his lips twitched into a smile. "You'll settle in just fine." he said with a smirk. "The garage is in the basement. Black sedan. Keys are in the cupboard by the door. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir." Clint replied, grinning to himself. This job might not be that bad after all.  He walked through the side halls, mentally going through the map inside his head, and found the stairs leading to the garage in no time. The garage wasn't a garage at all. It looked like a museum of old vintage cars. It was--it was amazing. He'd seen old cars before when circus set-up camp near a car show but this was something else. He couldn't help but whistle at the sight.

"Hey baby" he cooed at a gorgeous red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette with its top pulled down. "Aren't you a sexy ride?" he leaned close the side, but made a conscious effort not to touch any part of the exterior. There was an aura about the car that made it too precious to hold.

"Her name's Lola." Coulson's voice echoed the basement.

Clint practically jumped from his skin. No one, absolutely no one except Natasha could sneak up on him like that--not even Nick Fury. He spun around, instinctively reaching back for his hidden switchblade. He had one concealed at the garter of his pants--well, Coulson's pants. Phil greeted him with a sheepish smile. Okay, there was definitely something more to this man than the file suggests. It was either that or he seriously should have undergone re-training.

"Nice ride, sir. Look originals too. Wow, just wow. Where did you find one in such mint condition?" His best defence was always a good offense. He could smooth talk his way out of any situation. He stepped away from the car stiffly.

"She was my grandfather's. I got her restored. It took a while but I managed to find all the missing pieces eventually. She's the reason I started the collection in the first place. My grandfather took me around in her all the time. It was one of the best times in my life. You know your cars?"

"Not much, sir." Clint confessed, ducking his head slightly. "We... my family couldn't really afford one. But what man can resist such a beautiful specimen like this? She's a real beauty, sir. I haven't seen a car look this good since, well, ever. Classics have so much soul in them."

Phil smooth his hand over the hood affectionately. "Thank you."

There was silence, both men shifting awkwardly on the balls of their feet with Lola between them.

"I.. you needed something, sir?" Clint spoke up just to break the trance.

"Ahh, yes, I thought you'd gotten lost on the way here."

Clint chuckled a little at that. "Not so bad with direction, sir. I just got a little distracted with Lola over here. Shall we go?" he asked, wringing the key chain for the Black Sedan on his finger. He plucked it off earlier when he passed by the door. It wasn't that hard to find. He saw the logo almost immediately when he opened the cabinet.

"Yes" Phil agreed. "That would be excellent."

The car ride was filled with amicable silence. Phil pulled out his laptop the moment the doors were locked and started his bullet-like key strokes, stopping only for a few seconds with a thinking hum before rapidly firing again. Clint had placed his new service phone on the holder and programmed in the office address.

 _"Location confirmed. Calculating route.."_ a female voice with thick British accent said from the phone's mini-speakers.

"Barton" Coulson called out as they exited the basement garage.

"Yes, sir?"

"Make it quick. I don't want to miss the meeting."

"Buckle in, sir." Clint grinned, stepping on the gas. The computer may know the shortest route there but he knew all the side roads which avoided traffic. He ended up shutting the noisy GPS half-way through the trip. He's gotten annoyed with the constant _"Recalculating route, recalculating route"_ every time he did not follow the prescribed roads. They reached the office in less than twenty minutes.

"Sir, we're arrived."

No response. Clint glanced over the rear view mirror and watched as Coulson was concentrating on his computer screen. Even through the mirror, Clint could see the frustration in the man's eyes and the way a furrow formed three lines on his forehead. He had some sort of a scowl on his face, like he was biting the inside of his pressed lips. The brightness of the computer screen highlighting the shadows on his face.

"Sir?" Clint called a second time.

Phil looked up. "Yes, Barton?"

"We're, uh,  here." he explained, gesturing to the large glass-encased building beside them.

"Oh" Phil said with flat amazement. The smallest inclination of his head told Clint that he looked to check it for himself. "Very well. Please park the car. You've just given me time. Thank you."

They parked on the seventh floor, the one with access to the executive elevators. Clint patted down his lapels before opening the door for Coulson. The man looked shocked. "Uhm, thank you." he said, stepping out of the car and pulling his sleek leather laptop case with him. "I appreciate your enthusiasm with work but I assure you that I am more than capable of opening my doors, Barton."

"Noted, sir." Clint nodded without meeting the man's eye. He pulled out his tablet and scanned through Coulson's meetings for today. He scanned the parking area quickly, noting the blind spot for the cameras and any dark corners where possible hostiles can hide. He identified three main areas: near the stairwell, the ramp, and beside the elevator. "It's clear, sir."

Phil waved him off. "course it is. It's my building." He plucked ID badge from his coat pocket, swiped it to open the elevator door, and stepped inside. He pressed the hold button with a slightly smug expression. "You coming?"

The elevator ride was silent except for the regulatory elevator music. It went straight for Coulson's assigned floor. It was on the top floor, of course it would be on the top floor. Guess what? Coulson also had a corner office which had not one but _two_ walls made of glass. Clint inwardly groaned. Trust Fury to have an endangered friend who could possibly be the world's greatest security risk. It was like he was challenging them to get to him. He was so, so---out in the open.

Phil greeted the employees with the same warm smile he gave  his household staff. He knew each of their names, stopped a bit to ask about their families, and knew who was on leave/sick/on vacation. How did the man do it?

"Problem, Barton?" Clint snapped back to reality. Phil probably though he was staring into space.

"No problem, sir. Visual recon of the surroundings."

"Okay" Phil acknowledged. "I'll have Anton from Security prepare your badges and your scans. You can have your biometrics recorded on our systems, right?"

It took Clint longer than it should have to answer. He shook his head very slowly. "I, uhm..." his biometrics will reveal all sorts of bad things to resurface from his past. He was sure that SHIELD removed all traces of his records and placed them in secure storage but still... If his name and face rang up the WSC, his career would be over and prison it is. "I'll have to check in with the Director for clearance, sir."

Clint had to raise his eyebrow at the secondary desk setup. There was a desktop computer with a flat screen monitor, a second landline, and small pedestal. "Sure, you don't have a secretary sir? Looks like your office is fitted for one."

Phil just smiled. "Never the secretary type, really. It's good though. Everyone will just think that I've wised up and got my own secretary. But I was never really a fan of big organizational structures."

Clint spent the day hacking, decrypting, and re-encrypting the desktop computer on his desk. It was a little something he needed to brush up on. He wasn't half bad but he wasn't as good as their specialists either. For now, it was safe to assume that he has the most secure PC in the building.

He listened in to Phil's meetings for the rest of the day. He got introduced to several people whom he catalogued in his mind for future references. He transcribed each and every meeting, emailing Coulson a copy of the summary after each one.

After lunch, a man named Anton came into the office to give Clint his security cards. Coulson had managed to send a message to Fury about the biometrics. Clint received a text message from an unknown number on his knew phone: **biometics green**. Albeit reluctant, Clint followed Anton to the second floor to get his biometrics encoded into the system. He met several people on his trip to security.

A red-head guy named Fred was in Coulson's office when he returned. He felt overly embarrassed like he was being measured for a field suit in the middle of his mark's office. Then the man pulled out a briefcase with every fabric, in every colour imaginable, and strode up to Phil. They talked for an hour going through the different combinations. It was weird but they left him alone to do his work.

By two o'clock in the afternoon, he had access to all of the personnel files, building layout, security measures, etc. He also had visuals from every security camera in the building. It was like he built a one-man fortress. To top it all off, he synced the damn thing to his table with remote access.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in" Phil's voice answered automatically without looking up from his documents.

"Good Afternoon, MC." A girl entered the door moments later. She was young, brunette, and very beautiful. Her ombre coloured hair was loose around her face, floral dress swishing about her. She entered so nonchalantly that Clint had to mentally rundown the file again. Girlfriend? No, the file didn't say that Coulson had a girlfriend. She looked twenty-five, practically like an older daughter.

"Daisy. How has she been?"

Clint spotted a second girl walking into the room, clinging to the older female's hand. He recognized the small figure as Coulson's five year old daughter--Isabelle Coulson.

The woman--Daisy--shook her head in quiet disapproval. "She's has better days. We drew in class today." Daisy crouched down, eyes levelling with the little girl's. "Do you want to show daddy what you drew today, sweatheart?"

The girl shook her head furiously. Even from across the room, Clint heard Coulson sighing. Turning his head, he watched the man's expression change from sorrow to guilt to something unreadable. It was like the man who gave warm smiles to his staff was gone and replaced by a heartbroken widower. He stood up, leather shoes tapping as he crossed the room and  crouched in front of his daughter.

"Hey baby. Wanna show daddy the picture?" Isabelle clutched the small piece of paper to her chest more tightly. Phil looked over his daughter's shoulder and gave a weak smile. "Thank you for always bringing her over. I'm sorry to cause you the trouble."

"No problem, MC. Izzy's great kid. I'm glad she stills has you."

"Barton, please walk Daisy to the door."

Clint mechanically stood up before his mind could process what he was doing. "Hi. I'm Clint Barton, Mr. Coulson's new secretary. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier."

"Oh!" Daisy's eyes lit up in surprise. "I should get my eyes checked. I didn't even notice you were in the room! How did a not see a hunk like you at the corner table? You're like some kind of ninja or something." she said smiling. "Daisy Johnson. I part-time at the kindergarten. I bring Izzy here every Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. I'll be seeing you around." She left giving him a suggestive wink.

When he turned around he saw Phil was still crouched in front of the little girl. Their eyes met as the man looked up. There was a pleasing, longing look in his eyes that struck him right in the gut. He's seen eyes like those before. They felt so lost. Lost like when he'd been with the circus.

"Need anything, boss?"

Phil lowered his head but Clint was better at reading people. He straightened his back. He wants to say things like _I'm sorry for your loss_ or _I know what you're going through_ or _It'll be okay_ but instead he ends up with one knee planted on the floor beside the little girl and saying: 

"You must be Princess Isabelle. I'm Clint. Your father, the King, has told be so much about you"

The girl's head perked up, turning to him with quiet curiosity. Then she said "you my knight?"

Clint grinned from ear to ear and bowed his head. "At your service, your highness. Say, would you like to see a magic trick?"

This time, Isabelle nodded.

"Alright." He told her with a smile. "One magic trick for the beautiful princess." He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and took out a quarter. He passed it to her and opened his hands. "I'll make this quarter disappear." He said, opening his empty palms up. She placed in one of his hands. He did some fancy hand gestures. "Alakazam!" he boomed. "Pick one."

The girl chose the fist which she placed the quarter in. Clint shook his head, still grinning. "Nope. Try again." He said, revealing an empty palm. Isabelle chose the second closed fist. He shook his head and revealed the empty palm.

Isabelle's eyes beamed up at him with something like wonder.

"Do you wanna know a secret?" Clint whispered, leaning close to her ear. She nodded. "Sometimes, you've got to look... a little further away." He pulled back and plucked the quarter from behind her ear. She clapped her hands and giggled.

"Again!"

Clint repeated the trick two more times. Isabelle finally settled down on the large leather couch with a tablet on her folded knees and a pair of earphones.

The rest of the day was relatively quiet. Coulson didn't have any more meetings for the rest of the day. Clint finished setting up the added security protocols on all electronic devices and had begun looking into the background of staffers. He started with the ones on this floor since they were more frequently in contact with Coulson. They leave the office at five o-clock with Phil carrying a sleeping Isabelle in his arms. They walk to the car in companionable silence.

"Barton" Phil calls from the back seat. Clint glances up and briefly makes eye contact through the rear view mirror. "Where did you learn that trick?"

Clint let out an embarrassed chuckle. "Uhm, ex-carnie... learned it when I was still in the circus. Used to do tricks while selling tickets at the sidelines. Made a good bit of money too." he explained, forcing on a smile.

"Oh"

He could feel Coulson's heated gaze on the back of his neck. Usually this was the point where people would ostracize him for his shady past and judge him for being a circus performer. All of his insecurities about his part came to the surface. He wouldn't be surprised if he got a call tomorrow saying that he was off the protection detail. Instead, he heard one of Coulson's thinking hums. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder.

"I haven't been to the carnival in years." Phil said, thinking out loud. "Would you search if there's a carnival near the area? I think Izzy might like it."

Clint blushed up to his ears. "Sure, sir. I'll get to it once we arrive."

The rest of the trip is silent. Izzy wakes up just as they enter the garage. They are met by the same brunette who greeted him this morning. She doesn't seem to remember him because she gives him as warm of a smile as she gives Phil and Isabelle.

"Good Evening Master Phil, Little Miss, and..." she trails off, uncertain what to call him.

"Rita this is Clint Barton. He's my new secretary. He started today. He's going to be staying with us for a while to help him get used to things. You know how I can be with my work." Phil introduced them briefly. "Call the staff into the kitchen mess after dinner. I'll introduce him to the rest of the staff properly. For now, can you please make sure Isabelle changes gets changed for dinner?"

"Of course, sir." She replies, holding out a hand to the reluctantly little girl. "Come on, Little Miss."

"Sorry about that." Phil says a little bit embarrassed. "I've forgotten to introduce you to the staff earlier this morning. I guess, my mind was a little bit preoccupied."

"No worries, sir."

They walk up the basement and into the main floor of the house. They parted ways at the staircase. Like Isabelle,  Phil went to his room to get changed for dinner. Clint took the free time to roam the halls of the house-slash-mansion. It was moderately decorated. The furnishings were tasteful and classic not over the top and overwhelming. It eluded the aura of home without the family portraits decorating the hallways.

"Hey there, handsome." A voice greeted when he entered the kitchen. It was the girl who'd chosen the suit he was wearing. She was the only one in the area.

"Good Evening, Ms. Ginny." he replied with a practiced smile.

Her hips gave a little sway as she walked towards him. "You know my name but I don't know yours."

"Clint, Clint Barton." he replies with a saucy smile.

"Mr. Barton. Master requests your presence in the main dining room."

Clint blinks at that. Wasn't he supposed to eat with the rest of the staff? "I, um, right away." he said, ducking out of the kitchen. He enters the dining room with a furrow in his brow but it disappears when he sees Isabelle Coulson's face light-up from across the room.

"I take it that it wasn't your idea, sir?" he questions nonchalantly before taking a seat.

Phil just looks at him apologetically. "My daughter is convinced that knights must sit at the round table" he said with the corners of his lips twitching. Which is ironic because he did, in fact, have a round dining room table. Clint had to stifle back his laughter but he let his eyes twinkle at the thoughtful little girl.

"Well, isn't she a sweatheart?" he smiles at the little girl. She beams back at him.

"She is. Believe me." Phil says just enough for him to hear. "But she used to be bubblier than this. She's been a little withdrawn since..." he trailed off but Clint understood what he meant. "I don't know how you've managed to make her open up. She's normally shy around strangers."

"I lost my parents too when I was eight. So, uhm, I can relate to her, I guess." Clint tried to be light about it.

"It must have been bad. Both of them at the same time?"

"Hmm. Car accident. But, hey, I turned out okay right?" From the corner of his eyes Clint watches as Coulson's expression softens.

"Yes. Perfectly alright." the older man says.

Dinner is quiet. With Isabelle giving small bits of information about her day ever so often. Clint and Coulson have nothing much to talk about. Plus, having dinner with your boss and his daughter is a little bit more than awkward. True enough, Clint seems to have captured the little Coulson's attention. She refuses to let go of his hand and begs him to read her a story. Clint, with much prodding from Phil, agrees after a few minutes. He can push back the security sweep tomorrow.

They end up in the library, curled into one of the plush sofas. Clint is reading a book about King Arthur and his knights out loud. Isabelle's head is pillowed on his lap. She gives her commentary now and then. Sometimes she asks questions. Clint lets her and continues reading the book. Phil finds them like the pair curled up in front of the fire.

He picks up his daughters and nudges Clint awake. "Hey" he says softly. The younger man stirs. "Go to your room." Clint groggily stands up and leaves the library. Phil chuckles to himself and follows. He puts Izzy in her bed, tucks her toy t-rex under her arms, and kisses her forehead goodnight before returning to his rooms. He immediately spots the trails of clothes leading to his bed.

He shakes his head and looks over the bed. Clint is snoring peacefully into one of the pillows. He's barely gotten himself into the covers, one leg protruding out of the sheets. Phil wonders if he should wake the man but pushes away the thought. He can see the exhaustion radiating from the younger man. He doesn't have the heart to wake him. Neither is he a self-sacrificing man. He's grown too accustomed to the familiarity of his own bed. Now he can't sleep anywhere else. He shuffles out of his clothes and into a pair of pyjamas and crawls onto the other side of the bed. He falls asleep to the sound of Clint's steady breathing behind him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Clint wakes up with a streak of sunlight across his face and feeling like he was sleeping on clouds. He mumbled a curse and snuggled deeper into the nest of warmth he was buried in. He stills when his nest actually begins to move underneath him. He feels the surge of panic run through him. There is a stifled groan from the blankets. He blinks in surprise before very slowly turning around. He faces no one other than his newest assignment--Mr. Coulson.

The man is frowning in his sleep with deep crease running across his forehead. He twists to his side, clutching at a pillow to his chest as he faces Clint.

"Audrey" Coulson murmurs in his sleep. "Please... I love you."

Clint almost jumps back. Coulson's features look so strained and sad. It's painful to watch. He manoeuvres himself off the mattress and lands his feet silently on the side of the bed. He backs away, feeling like his invaded something deeply personal that he should not have seen. He picks up the clothes he's borrowed from Coulson. He rushes out of the room without putting it on.

He bumps into a girl as he leaves the room. "Oh" the girls says with a start.

"Oh. Hey, hi!" Clint barely manages to get out as he stumbles to his feet. "Hi, uhm, Ginny...?"

The girl gives him the once over before replying. "Glad you remember my name, handsome. It's Clint, right?"

"Yeah, yeah" he says, feeling the awkwardness creeping in. He must look like shit right now--half-dressed, sleep rumpled, and he's sure he has a cotton mouth. That and the fact that he was supposed to be a new assistant who _just happened_ to come out of his new boss' bedroom--Fury would have a field day with this.

Ginny just giggles at him with a knowing look. By god, she thinks that his new job is an excuse for a booty call; she think that _he's sleeping with Coulson_!  "How're you settling in? Sleep alright?"

"I, uhm" with his sleep addled mind he gestures vaguely to the one door then the other. He imagines how this must look like to an outsider--catching him sneak out of his new boss' bedroom looking every bit like he was last night's lay. It won't look good on his resume or any of his field reports. Lucky for him, she wasn't an agent.

"I fell asleep in the wrong room." He explained weakly and flinched. It sounded like a lie even to his own ears.

Ginny raised her eyebrow, lifting her hands to rest on her hips. "And the master didn't kick you out?"

"Uhh" he really didn't know the answer to that. Why hadn't Coulson kicked him out? God knows that the man have every right to. Instead, he let Clint sleep in his bed for the entire night and actually sleep beside him! He inwardly cursed and tried to give her the most innocent smile he could muster. "We just slept, honest."

"Uh-hum" she rolled her eyes. "Whatever rings your bells, handsome. Pity though, you've got a gorgeous ass." she gives him a wink before leaving. "See you at breakfast!"

Clint doesn't go to breakfast. He pulls on his previous day's clothes and slips out of the house without meeting anyone else. The sun is barely up. If he packs quickly enough, he can get back to the Coulson house before his new boss needs to leave for work. On the bus ride to his rundown apartment, all he can think of is Coulson's face and how much sorrow the man's expression betrays.

He's been in more fights than he can count, killed more men than he would ever admit to, and watched too many people die on the field but he had one safety net--he never met their families. He was been in more fights than he can count, killed more men than he would ever admit to, and watched too many people die on the field but he could never ever had to face their families. He sucked at families.

"Shit!" he pushes the chair in front of him so hard that the bus driver glares daggers at him through the overhead mirror.

"Sorry" he grumbles, and slouches into his seat for the rest of the ride.

There is a care package waiting for him at his door. His apartment is in the middle of the floor and the medium-sized cardboard box sticks out like a sore thumb. He eyes it carefully as he enters the long hallway. He relaxes when he sees the emblem from a fake custom bow company that SHIELD uses whenever they send him anything. He picks it up, jangling his keys as he slides it into the lock. What surprises him is the note that comes with it.

_Look the part and make it work._

It's in Fury personal script. When he peers inside, he sees several new outfits for him.  There are at least three sets of new shirts, vests, jackets and trousers, a new pair of shiny black leather shoes, and sleepwear (non-descript shirts and sweats). He's a little bit surprised. Who was Phil Coulson and why was Fury, top-brass and longest running director of SHIELD, going through all that trouble to protect him? He pushed the thought back.

His old phone rings.

"Barton" the voice comes from the other side before he could speak.

"Director"

"I assume you've seen the gear I've sent over."

"Yes, sir." Clint says with a grin. "Though, if you're going to be thorough, sir, you should have sent me underwear as well."

"Negative, Barton. How's Phil?"

Clint is allowed a second of momentary shock. Fury never refers to the person of interest as anything but a mark or a target. This assignment has been breaking every single rule he's seen Fury put into place. He hasn't gone through all the nitpicking of Phil Coulson's background. There was no need too. The intel was solid and clean. Easiest job ever. But now, he's curious.

"The perimeter of the house is secure. Top of the line, any more high-tech and he can rival Tony Stark. He got more cameras in his house than in his office. He's most likely going to be attacked there. Too many blind spots. I'm going through the personnel files and working of heightening security around the areas, Mr. Coulson frequents. Either that or we get attacked on the road. But I've got that covered, sir. I'll be using a different each day. Highest risk will be from the house to the edge of town 'cause there's no other way. Sir."

There was a pause on the line. "I asked, specialist" Fury's voice was low. "How's Phil? If I wanted a report I would have asked you to report."

"He, uhm, sir...?"

"For Christ's sake, Barton! Is my best friend okay?"

"Uhm, I think. I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand."

"Do you want to get demoted? It's a simple physch analysis, Barton. How is he? Is he eating? Does he sleep? Can you confirm any sort of mental stress that he is undergoing?"

"He's been sleeping. But he has dreams. I think he's dreaming about his late wife."

"I see." There was a long pause on the line like Fury was fighting to fighting hard not to snap his pen in half.  "Keep an eye on him, Barton. Fury Out."

Clint stared at the phone in confusion. As time passes by, he's getting more and more intrigued to find out why Phil Coulson is so special. He glances down at the wall clock and, shit, it's nearly seven! Taking his least damaged duffle, he packs quickly and efficiently. He takes a quick shower and puts on the first set of his business clothes. He makes a face at the stiffness of his shoes. Man, he hates new unbroken shoes. He's gonna have blisters on his blisters after this mission.

He shuffles out the door and out of the apartment. He takes ends up taking a cab so he won't be late. The grumpy old lady answers the door for him. She looks at him appreciatively this time. It's clear that she's more welcoming to his Grad Student cover persona rather than his busker vibes from yesterday.

"Good Morning, Clint."

"Good morning, uhm.. I'm terribly rude but we've never been introduced." he puts out his hand like a proper gentleman. "Clint. Clint Barton."

"Rosa" the woman replies. "Rosa Ramirez. You must be Mr. Coulson's new secretary."

"Yes, I am. I believe Mr. Coulson relies on the competency of his staff. I will be taking over his schedule, both official and personal matters. So you will be expecting me around the house often. I am sure that will not be problem." He says, straightening up and looking and feeling more like the secretaries he watches on TV rather than a spy. God knows how _those_ things are reliable.

"Nonsense dear. It's good to have a little more eye candy around. Can't have the girls pining for Mr. Coulson all the time, can we? But you. You'll do fine."

Clint feels awkward at her change in demeanour. Was it really the clothes that made him look proper and presentable that people started treating him differently or was she fucking with him? He smiles politely at her as she leads him inside.

He goes upstairs to his assigned room. It the first time he's seen it. It's huge. It's bigger than his living room in Bed-stuy. There's a queen-sized bed that feels like it's the softest mattress he's felt and sheets with a thread count to high it feels like he's on top of clouds. There's an connected bathroom too, with an eight-diameter showerhead. Wow, just wow.

He drops his duffle at the foot of the bed and goes to pick up his guitar case that was resting against the dresser drawer. He opens it and examines his bow. He feels the sides for the little bump and presses. The red velvet bottom pops out. He's got a series of weapon and holsters. He picks several items and gets dressed for the day.

His door flies open.

Clint's got his pistol aimed at the intruder even before the door hits the wall.

"Stand down" Coulson's voice is like steel and he instinctively lowers the firearm. It wasn't a conscious decision on his part. The mere solidity of the command made his obey without hesitation. He's never done that before, not even with Fury.

"Sir!" Clint relaxes and stands at attention. He snaps the safety on and holsters the gun on his shoulders. He looks directly at Coulson. The man has a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead making it shine. His eyes are wide and dilated. His neck pulsing from the blood in his veins. The man must have ran up the stairs or something.

"Oh Barton! Thank god you're here!" Coulson exclaims and gives Clint the biggest smile he's ever seen. "Izzy has been frantic. She's threw a tantrum when Ginny told her that you left this morning. I'm sorry. I know it's beyond your mission parameters but please come down to breakfast and appease my five-year old daughter."

Clint blushes. He hadn't really done anything to merit such fondness from Coulson's daughter. Sure he's been friendly but isn't that how he was supposed to treat children? He can't understand why the little girl would take to him so quickly. Still, he regains his composure, pulls on his jacket and follows Coulson to the dining room.

"Clint!"

Isabelle  flings herself at him at full force as he crosses the threshold. He braces his body for the impact, sweeps her up and twirls in one fluid motion. She bursts into giggles.

"Good Morning, Princess. Did you sleep well last night?"

She shakes her head and clings to him, wrapping her smalls arms around her neck and buries her face on his shoulder. "No" she mumbles into his jacket. "Dreamt to mama." He feels her tighten the hold on his neck as she says the words. He swoops her up in a solid embrace, stifling her tear no matter how little. He holds her tight in his arms.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart." He coos like Sister Mary Francis at the orphanage used to do. He rubs down her back in small circles as her tears dampen his newly pressed suit. He surprises himself to realize that he means it. He's known how the loss of a parents feels like. He's known it twice as hard but he was eight when they died. Izzy was only five. He clutched her almost like a lifeline and she clutched back. "It'll be okay, your knight will be here now, Princess."

Coulson walks up behind him, plants a warm hand on his back and the other on his arm. Clint tenses up at the touch. Coulson's face is so close that Clint can feel his breathing down the back of his neck when he speaks. "Izzy, baby, it's okay." He says, breath brushing against the side of Clint's cheek where Izzy has her face buried in his shoulder. "Daddy misses mama a lot too. But mama is in a better place now. She's no longer hurting."

Clint vaguely recalls the cause of Audrey Coulson's death--Lukemia--and thinks of how devastating that kind of illness might have caused to their small family. Terminal cases were often the hardest, family members had to _see_ their loved on degenerating right in front of their eyes with each passing day and there was absolutely nothing they could have done to prevent it. He holds the child close to him, trying to relay every grain of sympathy he can transmit. But the child doesn't stop shaking.

Then Coulson moves in front of them, and wraps two long arms around Clint's shoulders, cradling the little girl in their arms. Isabelle shifts and Coulson merely pull them tighter against him. Clint has to revel in the man's steel-like grip beneath the suit jacket. It doesn't feel weak at all. On the contrary, he can _feel_ every hidden muscles that is expertly hidden beneath the tailored suit and it only fuels his curiosity about his current assignment more. Eventually Izzy stops crying and then they are hugging in the middle of the room with wait staff staring at them, visibly attempting not to giggle.

"Ehrm, sir?" Clint tries weakly, wiggling out of the older man's grip carefully. "I think you said something about breakfast?"

Coulson broke away, a bit too abruptly to be nonchalant, and looks away. "Yes, breakfast." He confirms with a slight cough. "Ginny. Please tell Molly and Artur to serve breakfast, please." He instructs the staff. He moves to take Izzy from Clint's arms but the girl stays firmly attached to his young body guard. He tries to wake this off. Izzy has never been good with strangers since Audrey died yet she seems to have taken a shine to the blonde.

"Very well" he says quietly and takes his seat at the head of the table. "Izzy, don't you want to sit on your own chair like a big girl?" he tried and fails when the kid's shoulders continue to slump against Clint. "Okay, stay with Clint. But daddy will be very lonely for breakfast without his big girl at his side." This earns him half a look.

"I want to stay here." She replies, turning around and settling on Clint's lap. "I'm still beside daddy."

He throws Clint a wary look and the man merely shrugs back. "I'm sorry. She tends to act out a lot when she's had dreams about her mother. I can call Skye and have her pick-up Isabelle for school."

"Skye? She's the kindergarten teacher from yesterday, isn't she?"

Coulson nods. "We have" he paused "a special arrangement with her and the school. She's been with Izzy since she first started walking. I would let her have a rest day but given the circumstances, I think I would much rather have her at school." He gave Clint a knowing look, portraying exactly what he meant by 'circumstances'. Clint nods in return.

Breakfast arrives in an insanely formal fashion by three servers. There was actual silver platters with fancy silver lids! Clint can't believe how rich this guy was and he looked like a rank-and-file guy in wall street. The man didn't even have a rich-guy aura that Clint had seen in those old Hollywood films he used to watch in black-and-white during his circus days.

Ginny and two others--he presumed to be Molly and Artur--each stood by their left and served their plates on the table. Clint had two plates in front of him, given that he was sharing his breakfast space with Isabelle. It gave him an excuse to lack the proper table etiquette as he attempted breakfast with his non-dominant hand while Izzy ate, slightly to one side. His was a full-English breakfast while Isabelle's was toast and eggs.

"Shall we take  you to school, baby?" Coulson asks after the plates were taken away. Only Izzy's juice and two cups of tea remained at the table. "Skye told me all about the activities they have for you today."

But the small girl shook her head. "Dunwanna" she mumbles.

"Isabelle, use your words." Coulson scolds.

She looked back at him with bleary eyes. "I do not want to go." She says again, louder and firmer. "I want to go with you."

Coulson swoops down to where he's standing and bends on one knee beside Clint's chair. Like this, he is at eye-level with his daughter. Clint can seen the small bald-spot where his hair is thinning ever so slightly at the crown of his head. "Daddy has work today, Baby. But today is Friday and tomorrow is Saturday. Daddy can spend the whole day with you on Saturday" he promises.

Izzy looks like she's thinking about it and finally answers. "Okay. Knight too?" she asks.

"Of course, baby." Coulson replies. He looks up at Clint with a small smile. "Clear up my schedule for the weekend, Clint. I'd like to spend it with my daughter."

Clint mouths an 'Okay, boss' as the little girl slides off his lap. "May I suggest we get our little Princess to school before you miss your morning meeting, sir?" He suggests. He did his research in the apartment. He had Coulson's schedule for the day memorized. The man had a 9am meeting with Tony Stark. It was nearly eight in the morning.

"Sounds good. Do I need to call, Lucas?" Coulson checks, glancing over at his daughter then at Clint. The blonde grimaces and blushes.

"That would be great. Thanks."

The car which drives up the semi-circular driveway is different from the black sedan they used yesterday. This one was a newer model, a BMW in the same sleek black hue which most of Coulson's cars seem to represent. Seems like only the vintage ones were allowed eye-catching paint jobs. Clint can respect that. He's seen the value of blending-in and blending-in a big corporate office as no one other than the rich-guy who owns it has got to have some serious work.

"Sweet ride, boss." Clint jokes with a whistle. The child jostles in his arms but otherwise remains still.

"Thank you, Barton." Coulson replies with a small smile. Like a proper gentleman, he opens the door on Clint's sides and drapes a hand over Isabelle's hair as the pair enter the vehicle. Then he closes the door and walks to the other side. Clint peers at the driver curiously through the mirror.

 "To the pre-school, please, Lucas. Then the office." he instructs as he slides into the other side of the passenger seat. "Privacy blinds, please."

"Got it, Master Coulson." the driver responds and a dark opaque panel lifts up from the centre of the car.

"So I see, you've bought a suit." Coulson remarks. If Clint wasn't previously aware of the other man's presence he would have been surprised. He blushes.

"Come with the territory. Fury sent it over yesterday." he explains.

"I see." It's dull and bland but Clint can hear the hint of disappointment there. "Pity. I was fond of Fred's mock-up designs."

"I, ehrm, sorry?" Clint tries, not really knowing what to say. "To be fair, I wasn't expecting them either."

"I thought so" Coulson muses. It's light but the disappointment is still there. "They don't seem like you. Shall I have them sent back?" There is something dark in his voice that Clint can't quite understand.

"Sir?"

"Simply said, Barton. It would be a shame to have clothes tailored if you had no intention of wearing them." he says flatly. "But I am willing to compromise."

"I've only got a couple of suits, sir. But nothing fancy. Enough to pass for office work." Clint explains meekly. It's true. He'd have to repeat and shuffle a shirt or two to even get through the week. Not like he cared in particular but he can see where the man was coming from.

"It'll do for now. Tomorrow, I would like to wear one of the suits that Fred will deliver by the afternoon. They're more work-appropriate. No secretary of mine will be wearing RTW in the office."

Clint manages not to scoff.

Coulson turns and says "Status report, Barton. I'd like the full analysis and any area of concern. I specifically requested for this car in order to have this conversation. I am well-aware of how grave a security risk my offices poses." And Clint doesn't know how to react to that. So he just goes ahead and debriefs, pretending he was talking to Fury next to him in the passenger seat.

 "I assume you will be taking the role of my secretary for the remainder of your assignment." Coulson muses like he was thinking aloud. "I would like to inform you about the on-coming merger with Hammer industries. It'll mean that my schedule will be as tight as ever. Perhaps you can do some mid-level analysis while you sit through the meetings. I'll have the meetings recorded and transcribed by admin."

"Sir, yes, sir."

They drop Isabelle of at the pre-school and arrive half an hour before the scheduled meeting with Stark. Unlike yesterday, they get dropped-off at the main entrance. Clint takes on his role as secretary with a practiced grace, using the headspace he normally reserved for long-term undercover mission. He slides almost elegantly out of the car and strides over to the other side of the car, opening the door for his new boss. The action seems to take Coulson aback.

"We've arrived, sir" he says with an air of competency. "May I suggest heading to the board room? The SI Representatives will be arriving shortly."

Coulson nods his head once in acknowledgement. He has his tablet out and was currently scanning the documents for the meeting. "That will be excellent" he comments as they make their way up the building.

Clint is already done doing a threat-assessment of the lobby even before they got to the elevators. Open spaces made it easily accessible to snipers in the neighbouring building. He was thankful for the fact that this wasn't an assassination but rather a kidnapping attempt. He made a mental note to check-in with Fury for possible nests. They exited one floor below Coulson's main office where the entire space was dedicated to multi-sized meeting room. They'll be in Conference Room Foxtrot which can easily fit six people.

When they entered the room, a senior stenographer and Coulson's company lawyer was already waiting for them. Coulson takes the seat farthest away from the door and Clint sits on his right. The Stark Reps arrive at exactly nine am and enter the conference room at nine-fifteen. A beautiful lady with firey  blonde hair enters the room and a guy with aviator shades enters behind her.

"Ms. Potts" Coulson greets with a smile "Mr. Stark"

The meeting is a bore. Much like the debriefs back in HQ, Clint manages to finish without looking to disinterested in the topic. He listens at half-attention. He takes the time to scan through the employee databases for any anomalies in their profile. He narrows in down to fifteen; five on the janitorial staff, three in security, one in HR, and six in mid-level administration. He dismisses the janitorial staff, served time for minor offenses, and the HR staff who was caught shimmying up to her previous boss. It left him with nine candidates to look into.

The plate of scones is nothing but a plate of crumbs by the time the meeting comes to a close. Minor issues about RND and financing were discusses. Coulson was going into some kind of partnership project with Stark for clean renewable energy that would hopefully lower the demand for oil and electricity. The project will be based in SI with Coulson allowed 'visiting days' with general supervision. Ms. Potts stands and Clint opens the door for her.

"Thank you, uhm..." she starts but doesn't finishes.

"Barton" Clint ends the sentence for her. "Mr. Coulson's new secretary."

She gave him a warm smile and extended a hand. "Pepper Potts. I'm glad Phil finally had the sense of mind to get an assistant." she says with a _we're going to be best of friends_ tone. Clint's not sure whether to be worried or relieved. She almost-literally has to pull Stark away from the desk while he was mid-sketching his designs.

"Barton" Coulson calls out when they enter the corner office. Clint turns, just two steps away from the door.

"Sir"

"Have you made any headway on the carnival search for this weekend?"

Clint blinks. He didn't think that the man was serious about that. He thought Coulson was just being polite when he mentioned it on the car ride home. He shakes his head and looks down. "No, sir. I will get to it right away, sir." he says, dropping to his chair behind the desk and opening up twenty sites in rapid succession.

"Preferences, sir?" he asks, ten minutes into his search. "I've got low-level circuses coming in this weekend two cities over; one in Newak and the other in Brooklyn. We're got one set for the opera house down on main." He looks over and sees Coulson frowning. "No good? The others are out of town. I thought you wouldn't want to leave the New York."

"I'd like to see Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders. I saw it as a kid once. It's experienced a few major setback when the owner died. But I've heard that the new management had made quite the improvement. Can you search where they'll be performing next? I liked their archery act."

If Clint wasn't a trained stone-cold assassin, he would have been red up to his toes. There was no way in hell that Coulson would know that it was _the exact same circus_ that he was talking about yesterday. He pushed that thought to the back of his head as he googled for the next state-performance. Over the years, Marcella had brought Carson's back to life and it has gone a long-way from the small-town circus of his younger years. Today Carson's was a troupe that competed against crews like _Cirque de Soleil_.

"Sir, their next show is in Minnesota" Clint announces not two seconds later. He had to fight the glee in his voice as he says it. Minnesota was at least six states away. It would be impossible to get there and watch the show just for the weekend. It would take at least three days drive just to get there. "May I suggest another one?"

Coulson waves him off. "No. That will be fine. Book us an afternoon show for Sunday." He says, nonchalant, with a look that did not address the near impossibility of his request.

"But, sir..." Clint tried to protest.

"Pack your stuff, Barton. I've finished the itinerary. First stop is Jersey. Isabelle always liked going to the bay with her mother. She likes the boardwalk and has a favourite restaurant there. Then we'll fly to Rochester before dinner. We can eat on the plane. Can you at least book us a suite at the Hilton? You can do that at the least, can't you?" He says with a sigh, sounding irritated.

Clit tries not to fume at stupid rich-ass men, with stupid money, and stupid planes under his breath. He books them the presidential suite. Serves the bastard right, he thinks to himself as he confirms the reservation. He had money to spare anyway. He might as well spend it. Plus, it'll be a bitch in Minneapolis this time of the year. It'll be cold as hell and Fury didn't send him winter wear.

By two o'clock, Clint's finished writing off two guys in admin and one guy in security. The admin staff were sleeping with each other while the security guard in the parking lot was an illegal immigrant with a family of four to support. None of them were persons of interest for the Coulson kidnapping. He crossed them out of the list and dug deeper into the six remaining people on his list.

There was a knock on the door. This time, Clint was prepared for the woman who entered the room. He returned her smile with one of his own. He locked the screen and walked over to the small child she was carrying in her arms. He lifted Isabelle gently into his arms.

"Mr. Coulson is in the lavatory. Please feel free to make yourself comfortable and wait for him." He says, unconsciously rubbing circles down the sleeping child's back.

"She seems very taken with you." Daisy says without preamble. "She doesn't often get taken with people" She peers up at him like a mother fox sniffing for predators in the area. It takes Clint's self-restrain not to give into the urge to grimace at the proximity.

"I, uhm..." Clint stammers. "How was she today?" he asks, parroting Coulson's question from yesterday.

"She was quiet today and didn't participate much. I guess she had another dream with her mother again, didn't she?"

Clint fails not to look surprised.  "How did you know?" he can't help but ask.

She smiles at him and pushes the hair off Isabelle's face. "I've been with her since the beginning." She replies without going into detail. "You can say that I have very close connections to the Coulson family."

"You're the girl they call Skye, aren't you?"

She looks at him with wide eyes and nods weakly. "You figured it out?"

"Not really" Clint says. He really hasn't. "I'm not sure that I understand how you fit into the picture, Skye."

"I'm..." she trails off and grows quiet. "I'm her mother's illegitimate half-sister. We had the same father. Except he left my mother pregnant after a drunken one-night stand. But Audrey had been nothing but kind to us. He died and she took me under her wings. That's how I got to finish school, you know."

Clint takes the moment to take it in. "I see. I'm sorry for---"

"It wasn't a loss. I'm glad my sister is somewhere better. Now I'm repaying her kindness by helping raise her daughter." She pats him on the shoulder and has the audacity to kiss his cheek as she leaves. "I'll see you around, Clint. I'm happy Izzy's found someone else to open up to." She closes the door behind her, leaving Clint agape.

"Barton" Coulson's voice comes from behind him. "What was that about?"

Clint turns without losing balance. "I, sir, uhm"

Coulson stares him down with a stern expression. "Your assignment isn't to flirt with my daughter's primary school teacher, Barton" He says, icy cold. "I would appreciate if you concentrate on your mission parameters for the remainder for your deployment."

"Mission parameters don't exactly say that I have to play nanny to your kid either, Coulson" He shoots back before he can stop himself. He regrets it the moment the words pass his lips because Coulson's face shuts off completely. The kind-hearted man he met yesterday was gone and was replaced by a stone-cold CEO of Coulson Industries. There was no kindness in the man's eyes now.

"Understood, Barton." Coulson snarls. "I will have Skye join us for the weekend. I'm sure having her presence wouldn't much of a hardship for you. I'll contact her personally. Please let go of my daughter. The couch is a pull-out. Your dismissed of you babysitting duties. I expect a full-report on the building security and personnel before the day ends."

The days passes slowly without another word said between them. The tension in the room is so thick that he needs a chainsaw to cut it down. From the corner of his eyes, he watches how Coulson's shoulders have grown tense and the wrinkles in the corner of the older man's eyes. Clint want to apologize for mouthing off and explain that it'd been his fault since the very beginning. But who was he kidding? They didn't have a history. Coulson wouldn't be able to understand him.

They clock out at exactly five in the evening. Clint's phone buzzes and Lucas' details pop-up. It's the reminder to go down in fifteen minutes for the car to pick them up. He moves to gather Isabelle into his arms but Coulson body-blocks him from the child.

"I've got her. You go ahead."

Clint does.

The journey to the house is equally quiet and two-times as awkward. Isabelle was still fast asleep on her father's lap. Without the child as a distraction, it only makes the uncertainty between the two men rise. Neither of them wants to fold. Clint want to play with something on his phone but he doesn't have his normal cell with him. He also doesn't have any of his normal contacts to entertain himself. So he settles on looking out the window. It's dark-tinted and he can see Coulson in the reflection.

The man in the window look mournful. He has the look of a man who had his life ripped from his hands and torn into shred. Clint knows that look. He's seen that look many soldier when he was in the Marines. He's seen that look when a handler lost one of their agents. He's seen that look on Barney's face when they lost their parents. He wants to say something, to apologize. He wants so desperately to make things between them alright and make this assignment less painful. But he's a coward and he can't.

He goes straight to the staff entrance when they arrive home. He gathers intel on the household staff in a daze. There are seven people in the household; Ginny, Molly, Artur, and George are all from one family; Rita and Eduardo the gardener are married; Lucas is the son of the Coulson's old driver. He eats dinner with them and they take a liking to him. Rosa apologizes for bad first impressions.

"It's so hard in this neighbourhood now. You don't know whether or not you've got a troublemaker knocking on the door." She explains. She's like the old spanish aunt that Clint never had. She reminds him of the Tiger trainer's wife. "Poor Phillip. Audrey's death crushed him. He's never been the same. This house used to be happier before, you see? Flowers in full-blood, music everywhere. The mistress, she played the Cello. She was in the Portland Orchestra."

Clint finds out more about Coulson's deceased wife that night than he would care to remember. He also learns about the staff as well. Molly and Artur met in the Coulson family household when Phil's parents were the ones running the show. They got married and, with their employer's blessing, stayed on as the cook and butler, respectively. Their children are Ginny and George who is an all-around handy man. Rita and Eduardo were hired by Coulson as a pair. Rita's grandmother was grandma Coulson's personal maid. Isabelle didn't have a nanny because Coulson didn't trust anyone else with the memory of his wife.

The last bit hit Clint straight in the gut. He remembered the look of pure relief when Coulson saw him this morning and begged him to share breakfast with the family. They dines with Isabelle sitting on his lap for the entire meal. Then he was stupid and said mean things to Coulson before they left the office. He didn't even know why he was mad. He was just---he didn't like the way Coulson had accused him of becoming unprofessional while on assignment. He was a good agent, dammit!

He goes up to the bedroom a little after nine when everything is quiet. He passes by the library on the way up to his room. Coulson is there, huddled by the fireplace with Isabelle in his lap. He is reading quietly to her as she sniffs and drips snot all over his matching pyjamas. He pauses at the door and listen's to Coulson voice through the slightly ajar door.

"Then the princess lived happily ever after."

"But daddy" Izzy whine while sniffing "that doesn't exist. Forever isn't true. If it was, mama would still be here. Mama would be..." and she cries her little heart out. Clint feels his heart break a little. Then, without thinking, he's entering the library and picking the child up in his arms.

"Forever exists, kiddo." He tells her reassuringly. "Do you want to know what my mama used to tell me?" He felt the girl nod. "She says that as long as I remember her, she'll stay in my heart and she won't ever leave." He allowed his natural accent to bleed into his words.

"You shouldn't cry" he says, wiping her tears away. "Your mama wouldn't want you crying now, would she? She want her strong and brave little girl smiling. You won't forget your mama, ever, right? You'll remember her for as long as you're alive. For as long as you can. Doesn't that sound like forever?"

She grows silent but eventually nods again. "Yes."

"Then you're mama's right here." He puts her on Coulson's lap and puts a hand over her chest. "See? Right here?" And she smiles at him with a tear-streaked face.

"Let's get you to bed, shall we my Princess?" The pair of adults tuck her into her room. She's asleep by the time they reach the second floor. Coulson kisses her on the forehead as he steps away. He looks at Clint with a hard expression that slowly melts.

"I don't know what angle you are playing at, Barton. But you will not hurt my daughter." He says stiffly.

 Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek because, yeah, he deserved that. They leave Isabelle's room and he has to pull on Coulson's night shirt like a small child. "I'm sorry, sir. What I said in the office today. I was out of bounds and overstepped your authority. I'd like to apologize. Isabelle's a wonderful kid. Whatever annoyance I felt with you shouldn't have to be thrown at her. I shouldn't have said what I said. I..."

Coulson raises a hand to stop him. "That's enough, Barton." He brings the hand up to massage the bridge of his nose as he sighs. "Get some sleep. Pack your things in the morning. We've got a long weekend scheduled for us. You'll need the rest." he turns around and walks into his room, shutting it close before Clint could say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on a roll and finals is in two days! Hahaha. I finally finished writing the 2nd chapter of this story. I wanted to focus on developing the various character backgrounds in this one. It also gives a little previous as to the line of work which Coulson is invested in. 
> 
> Hate it? Like it? It'll be great if you tell me! Your comments are lovely and inspire me~ thank you for your lovely words!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am bumping up the rating because it does not feel right without the *cough* language *cough*.

Chapter 3:

"I see you made it to your own bed last night." Ginny says in lieu of a greeting. She is carrying a laundry basket by her hip and a feather duster in her freehand. She looks down at him curiously. Clint keeps steady under her gaze. "Did you have a fight with Master Coulson?"

"I, what, no!" Clint replies indignantly. "We didn't fight. Why are you asking?"

"Because you're here, silly." She huffs and gathers his clothes strewn on the floor. Then in a second, Clint suddenly gets it. He blushes up to his neck and throws a hand over his face 

"No, seriously. You've got it all wrong. I didn't... I am not _sleeping with Coulson_. He's as straight as an arrow!" He retorts. "I'm _just_ a secretary. Jesus! Does the entire house think we're sleeping together?"

Ginny's giggle is enough of an answer.

Clint throws her a glare. "We aren't _together_!" He says in frustration. His hands shoot up as if it helps in solidifying his case. Then he throws his head back and groans. "Oh god this isn't helping my case, isn't it?"

She laughs. "No, not really. Plus, you're going out of town this weekend. Master hasn't taken a vacation since the Mistress died. The staff hasn't stopped talking about it since last night."

Clint gives her his best death glare. "I was with you last night."

"Yeah but the gossip started when you left." She says cheekily. "Come on, I think they're expecting you at the table for breakfast."

Clint throws his head under the pillow as she leaves. He cannot believe this is his life: having a fake Princeton degree, only to have the entire staff think he's nothing but booty. Well, to be honest, he could have gotten worse--he could actually be just booty. But he's not; he's apparently the hot young secretary, who can't possibly be useful aside from being eye candy. The ring on his phone rattle his reverie.

He makes grabby hands at the Coulson-phone and barks "Barton" over the receiver.

"What the fuck did you do now, agent?" Fury hollers from the other end of the line. Clint can practically hear the man's vein popping. "Guess who called me this morning and asked for a replacement? That's right, Coulson did. Now I know my friend and he's not one who complains that easily. So tell me: WHAT.THE.FUCK.DID.YOU.DO?"

Clint takes a moment. He's not quite sure how to answer that. "Nothing! Nothing!"

"Then why the fuck is he suddenly running away?"

"Sir? I don't quite understand."

There's a clack on the other end of the line. "Barton. Cheese hasn't left the big apple in years. So why am I staring at paperwork to permit his plane airspace clearance?"

"Oh that" Clint mumbles stupidly. "We're going to take Izzy to the circus?"

"In Atlantic City?"

"No, sir. It's in Minnesota. He wants to see Carson's. But I'm not sure why. He insisted on it when I tried recommending some of the local shows."

"And where did he get that idea from?"

Clint rubbed the back of his neck. "I may have accidentally mentioned that I was in the circus..."

"Jesus H. Christ, Barton. I am not running a goddamn dating service. I do not need my asset getting personally involved. Or god so help me, I'll take over this mission myself."

"Sir, yes, sir." He clicks off the phone and hops to the shower. He takes a long bath and uses it as an excuse to miss breakfast. He emerges clean and fresh. He pulls out his duffle and packs the suits which Fury sent over. He's closing his bag when a knock on his door comes.

"It's open" he says, distractedly.

"Barton, a word." It's Coulson. Of course, it's Coulson! Clint is aware of his near-naked state with only a towel slung low on his hips. He sits down abruptly and crosses his legs. He knows it's the wrong move when it parts slightly at the movement, revealing more skin of his thighs. He forces down the blush and schools his face.

"Sir?"

Coulson visibly swallows and Clint doesn't know what to make of that. He clauses the door with an audible click. Now Clint swallows. It's hard not to when he's barely covered and the man is already in his perfectly pressed suit. He struggles not to shuffle his legs and hold false nonchalance.

"I may have erred in my actions. I think I have judged you too early." It's quiet when Coulson speaks like the man is not accustomed to apologizing. "Please disregard any transfer request from your boss. I fully intend to retract it."

And Clint cannot stop the 'oh'-shape forming on his mouth. He's speechless and that is definitely not a Clint Barton trait. So he says the first thing that comes to his mind:

"Your staff thinks were fucking."

They stare at each other. Neither one of them willing to move or say anything for that matter. Clint has to bite at his lower lip, already in the middle of a mental scolding. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he tells himself repeatedly. Way to go Barton. Now your boss thinks you want to fuck him. Waaay to stay professional. Gold stars for you!

"My staff thinks that we're... that we've---" it's a moment before Clint registers Coulson speak.

"That we are fucking, yes." He provides. "They can smell the faux secretary act as some kind of hoax but they think it's because I'm your, erhm, boy toy."

Coulson was a picture of pure shock. "I have  daughter. I am _straight_." He says pointedly. "Where in heavens names did they get that?"

Clint shrugged casually. "Never stopped anyone before." He mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, sir" Clint quipped and tries to be casual about it. "But you know the curious mind can be imaginative. Honestly, sir. I think they just might be looking out for you. Albeit misplaces and strongly inappropriate. I can, you know, stay out of your way."

The other man rubs a hand over the bridge of his nose, shoulders visible slumping. "No, no" he says, dismissively waving a hand. "Too late for that. They'll notice something is off. Just... do whatever you're assigned to do. The sexual tension thing seems to comes naturally anyway."

Clint has to stare are him with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Well it's not only rumours, right?" Coulson presses. "The staff's creative imaginations that we're, uhm, involved. Might as well let them. It'll give you stronger access to my quarters without it being suspicious."

"Are you sure about that? You'll be labelled gay." Clint says. Not that he had any problem with homosexuals. He was half one as well. He really didn't care much for the gender of a person. He's had an ex-wife, countless ex-girlfriends, and a couple of same-sex encounters here and there.

Coulson seems to think about it. "In my line of work, I have discovered that it's easier to just swing with it."

"Swing with it?"

"In today's terms, I think it's go with the flow." He says taking a step towards the door. "We'll meet you down at breakfast. The girls are already waiting."

"Sir, yes, sir." Clint grins. "Or should I call you baby now?"

"You can call me whatever you want for cover, Barton. As long as you keep it professional in the office."

Clint opens his mouth but has no retort to that. He closes it and watches as the door shuts with a click. He groans, falling like a starfish on the bed. This is his life: a super secret spy who's pretending to be an ivy league secretary of some rich guy while pretending their having something on the side. He can't believe this is his life.

"Fury is paying me double for this."

***

Clint goes down to the dining area not ten minutes later. He's dressed in a pants-suit ensemble--one of several that were delivered to his room yesterday. He can't help feeling conscious as three pairs of eyes are divert to him. "Erhm, good morning?"

"Good morning, Barton" Coulson acknowledges but says nothing else. Clint makes his way to the empty chair beside the man. Isabelle is beside her father on the right and Skye is sitting beside her. He seats himself on Coulson's left. He catches Izzy's eyes peering over her breakfast. He smiles at her.

Skye whistles and says "Wow. You look hot. Where did you get your suit? Aren't you a runway model hiding beneath those RTWs!"

"D'wanna sit with me again, princess?"

She squeals in delight and scrambles off her chair. She's beside Clint in record time. Clint pushes back his chair and makes room to accommodate her frame. He hides his blush in Izzy's high-ponytail.

Skye is sitting wide-eyed at the display. "Izzy sure has taken a shine to him, hasn't she MC?" She says, grinning into her glass of OJ. She's dressed down in a sunflower yellow dress and a mint green scarf.

Coulson agrees with a nod. "We'll be flying out to New Jersey shortly after breakfast. Lucas has loaded the van with our luggage. We can enjoy the bay side and boardwalk in Atlantic city. Then lunch at the bistro." He turns to Skye. "Thank you for accompanying us on such short notice. I know this is normally out of your responsibilities."

She smiles back at him. "Don't sweat it, MC. You know I love Izzy just as much as you do." She says teasingly. "But I think I may have competition for her attention. Are you sure you need me to tag along on this one?"

"Yes." Coulson clarifies. "I'm sure that your presence will be well-appreciated."

They finish breakfast with steady conversation between Coulson and Skye. Clint mostly kept to himself, entertaining a bubbly Isabelle on his lap. Skye directed a few sentences his way which he politely responded to but Coulson didn't even spare him a glance. He didn't understand why.

"Where do you want me, sir?" He asks as they reach the van. He's at the head of the group with Izzy and Skye behind him, holding hands. Coulson was at the very end of the group talking to Artur and Rossa.

"In the back with us" comes the reply.

Clint opens the door with a flourish and ushers the females inside. He holds his out for each of them like a gentleman. Then he steps aside and gives Coulson space to enter the vehicles. He's the last one in and awkwardly takes the seat beside Coulson. He shuts the door with too much force than necessary and winces in the aftermath.

"Sorry, boss" he mumbles under his breath.

Coulson doesn't comment on it. Clint draws out his phone and does his best to pretend he's doing something. In reality, there isn't much recon work before he reaches the actual sight and the hotel. So he has to sit here, beside Coulson, for the entirety of the traffic-delayed journey. He doesn't so much as flinch when the their thighs press together during a particularly sharp turn.

They make it to the airport with Izzy only managing to ask "are we there yet?" once. She was a rather behaved kind of girl and Clint had to wonder whether it was natural or by trauma. He knows from experience how losing a parent alter a kid. He's been there far too many times than he would care to count.

"We're almost there, princess." He turns back and says with a smile. He sees the corner of her mouth turn downward. "But don't worry. It'll be worth it. Good things comes to those who wait. Now, I know princess Izzy has all the patience of the world, right?"

She takes a while then breaks into a grin. "I'm a good princess!" She declares and settles back down easily beside Skye. The older woman just stares back in amazement.

"How are you so good with children?" She asks in amazement.

"My startlingly good looks?" Clint replies with a waggle of his eyebrows.

She snorts. "As if that's believable."

"Are you saying I'm not pretty to look at? Didn't you say quote a hunk like me unquote?" He says so suggestively just to get her cheeks a little red.

It works and she's tinted pink to the ears. She punches the back of his headrest with a fist. "No really. How are you good with kids? Do you have one of your own somewhere? Guess you Ivy-leagues need _something_ to distract you with!"

Clint made and off-handed sound. "No, not really. I don't have... I've never had. Uhm, no kids. Just the orphanage." He tries to say without laying it on them too thickly. He's learned early on that not everyone takes that kind of information in stride. "No biggies.. I turned out good, yea?"

It was thick silence. Clint slumped back into his seat, suddenly feeling ten-levels of awkward. He's right. Sometimes things should be kept secret. He and his big mouth. He's in a super secret spy agency for Christ's sake. He groaned inwardly.

"You did" Coulson's voice derailed his thoughts.

"Sorry, what?" He asked, still taken aback.

"You turned out good."

The rest of the ride, the subsequent check-in and VIP treatment at the airport was forgettable. It wasn't that Clint was used to airport. On the contrary, he's usually on the non-evac end of most missions he's sent on. There was just too much security holes in security and baggage check-in. Not to mention they skipped countless protocols because Mr. Coulson apparently ranked VVIP on the list.

"Woah!" Clint couldn't help in but be awed by the sleek looking airplane. "That is so cool"

There was a chuckle. "Thank you. "

"That's the bus." Skye whispered from beside him. "They used to take it out all the time to travel."

Inside was equally amazing. Clint felt like he was living the lap of luxury. It had all the amenities imaginable including an entertainment den with full-on flat screen LED action, a fully fictional kitchen, and two bedrooms.

"Mr. Coulson" a petite female greeted as they entered. She had sharp Asian features. She was dressed in a black aircaptain's uniform with a gold trimmings and a white shirt. Her hat was professionally clasped under her arm. _Military_. "Welcome back."

When she smiled, it was warm; it was almost like she was greeting an old friend.

"May." Phil greets. "It's good to see you." Instead of the business-like handshake that he normally gave the other people he's interacted with, he pulls her into a strong hug. May hugs back, equally as strong.

"I was beginning to think you've forgotten us." She says. Clint can only understand her muffled words because he was waiting for them. "It's been far too long, Coulson."

"I'm sorry. I'm back now." Something in the way he says it makes Clint tense up. Like it's some sort of code he's suppose to figure out. But he's got too few clues to do it.

Coulson pulls back. "It'll be a weekend trip: New Jersey this afternoon and Minnesota later tonight. Tomorrow we'll be flying back to New York after the show."

"Got it. Go buckle in. Wheels up in fifteen."

They take their seats which is actually in around the actual living room setup in the middle of the plane. Clint takes a seat near the windows. Whenever he flew, he was normally in the cargo hold. He rarely, if ever, saw the actual sky on lift off.

_"This is Captain May. Ladies and gentlemen please stay seated for take-off."_

"It's beautiful." Clint whispers as he stares across the tarmac.

"It is." Coulson says, taking a seat across him. "Chess?" He offers.

Clint gives him a meek look and shakes his head. "It's alright. Never really learned."

Coulson responds by raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure you can learn. Come on, just one game."

"Not really." Clint says sheepishly. "Barely even got my GEDs, sir. Circus orphan, remember?" It comes out more bitterly that he intended it to.

"Really? Nick seems to have a different opinion about you." The older man muses while bringing out the pieces and positioning in them on the board. "I'll teach you. He says you're a quick study."

Clint snorts. "Guess you know how I got recruited then."

"I confess, he told me a little bit." Coulson agrees. "But I think I'd rather hear it from the source."

"Not much to say, sir. He needed help, I went in to help him." He answers, mimicking to copy the way Coulson positions the pieces.

"Like a knight in shining armour, I bet." Coulson says with a smirk. Finishes up the board. "Here, this pieces goes there---"

Their finger tips brush slightly as Coulson fixes Clint's rook and knights. They linger before Clint pulls away. "More like a robbin hood, sir."

***

Atlantic City was brimming with people. It was the hustle and bustle of people walking, and talking, and enjoying the numerous stalls and shops that lined the boardwalk. Of course, at the very end of the pier was a theme park. Isabelle was positively squealing with excitement.

"Izzy don't----" and that was as far as Coulson got before the girl shot off. She zoomed through the crowds and disappeared within seconds. "Isabelle!"

"Don't worry, sir. I got her." Clint says before running off after her. His eyes quickly scanned the grounds and quickly spotted her. "Little miss troublemaker, come here!"

He scooped the girl into his arms. Man, it was hot. His suit was hot and he was sweating. She was giggling in her arms. "Your daddy was worried! Don't go running off."

"But I want to go up there!" She tells him, pointing to the big Ferris wheel. He looks up.

"That's a pretty tough sell, princess." Clint laughs.

"Oh Clint! Izzy!" Skye's voice broke through the crowd. "We thought we lost you!" She was flushed an clearly perspiring. Her brown hair sticking close to her face and neck.

"Barton!"

"Hey boss" Clint says with a smile. "I got her right here."

"Thank you" Coulson says with a face of pure relief. Izzy turned, smiling up at her father. His face lights up like a bulb. His smile finally doesn't look stressed and it reached his eyes. There's a few wrinkles and crow lines but he looks twenty years younger. He's one of the most handsome men Clint's met in his life.

Shit, he thinks. He did not just think that. He did not just think that his assignment was hot.

"She wants to ride that thing" Clint points to the wheels. "Can she?"

Coulson walks up to them, leaning in close. Clint knows it's because he was worried for his daughter. But he can't help feeling the heat emanating from the other man who was also seemed a little warm from his suit.

"As long as she promises not to disappear again."

"Hear that, princess? Didya hear that?" Clint tell Izzy. "So can you promise that you won't disappear again?"

"Yes" Izzy mumbles into Clint's shoulder. "I promise"

Clint throws a look over his shoulder and waits for Coulson to nod.

"Come on, darling." Coulson offers. "Let's go buy some tickets." At that, Izzy jumps out of Clint's arms and to her father's.

"Sir? Do you want me to join you?"

Coulson gives Clint a once over then he looks at Skye. "No thank you. I am more than capable of lining up and purchasing tickets for rides. You two make yourselves scarce and enjoy the boardwalk. I have your number on speed dial if I need you."

"O-kay." Skye says. "That was weird. You two have a spat or something?"

Clint gives her a deliberately slow blink. "Excuse me?"

"You and MC. Did you two fight?"

"What are you talking about?" Clint asks honest-to-god confused about where all of this is coming from because she's giving him the same look Ginny was giving him this morning. "You don't think that he and I...?"

"You mean you aren't?"

Clint groans and buries his face in his hands. "Oh no, not you too!"

She grins triumphantly. "Hah! I'm not crazy if I'm not the only one who sees it! You and MC totally have a thing."

"A thing?" Clint repeats with a grimace. "What are you twelve? Who says things like 'a thing'?"

"FYI, everyone does!" She shoots back. "What are you an old man? Jesus! You ivy league types think you're better than everyone!"

"We aren't. We don't. And I'm not that old. I'm---" he mouths off then remembers that he's supposed to be newly minted from grad school. "Twenty...six"

Her jaw drops and he has to bite back a wince.

"No way" she bemoans. "Just no way."

He mentally checks and counts whether or not he gave the right age. How old were graduates anyway? Damnit. He never even passed high school for Christ's sake!

"Ehrm?"

"You don't look that much older than me! And I'm twenty-two! That's just not possible."

"Thank you...?"

She squealed. "OMG! I can't believe MC's got someone so young. Who are you and where did he find you?"

"School career office?"

Skye plants both hand on her hips. "That doesn't make sense... MC's never had a secretary before. So it make me wonder why now."

Sweet Jesus why does this guy have such inquisitive friends? This was it. Just how much was he willing to go for this cover? He makes a come-here motion with his hands. Skye leans in close.

"Promise you won't tell anyone, please?" He says in the most puppy-dog voice he can muster. He can see those fangirl gears churning in her head. He will never understand women.

"Pinkie swear" she replies offering her hand. He clasps their little fingers together.

"I... I just don't want it getting out, you know? People talk and he has Izzy. I just don't want to cause any trouble. Plus he's this big CEO and I am just... me."

Skye is a pretty shade of pink by the time he stops talking. "Oh Clint that has got to be the sweetest thing I've ever heard! Can I call you Clint? I mean, we're practically family right? Of course, I am just the illegitimate half-sister-in-law. You can, uhm, is this to forward? I really, really wanna call you Clint but it's okay if you don't want to I mean..."

"Skye! Skye!" He call out, grabbing her by the shoulders. "It's fine. You can call me whatever you want."

"Yes! Oh I'm so happy for MC and he's finally moving on!" She says flinging her arms around him. "Oh Clint thank you!"

"But you can't tell he you know, please."

"I promise!" She replies, squeezing his shoulders.

"I would appreciate you limiting the public displays of affection, Barton." Coulson orders, seemingly out of nowhere. Izzy is by his side holding a small plushie in her arms.

Clint and Skye jump apart.

"MC are you a freaking ninja or something?" Skye bursts out laughing. "You scared me!"

Coulson has that ever-passive look on his face again. "I assure you, Skye, I am not a ninja."

"Went shopping boss?" Clint asks, detangling himself from Skye. He visibly glances over the plastic bag which Coulson is holding.

"Not so much." Coulson says "We won the stuffed animal."

"Oh cool!" Skye says with a clap of her hands. "But why the sad face, baby?"

Izzy is clutching the little bear to her chest but she was pouting. Coulson rubbed her head.

"She wanted the unicorn but" he made a motion with his wrist. "I was a bit rusty at carnival basketball."

"That's no problem." Clint declares. "Which one does she want?"

Coulson waves him off. "No, no. It's okay. She'll get over it eventually."

But Clint is persistent. "Come on, boss. Let me give it a shot. Ex-carnie, remember?"

"Okay"

It takes Clint forty dollars before he finally has the gigantic unicorn plushie in his hands. He grins back at them victoriously. He looks all-kinds of strange: suit jacket off, sleeves folded to his elbows, fresh sheen of sweat, and the obnoxiously large stuffed animal which he cradles in his arms like it was gold. His jacket was thrown over his shoulder.

"How and where did you find this dream guy, MC? He's such a darling!"

Coulson merely shrugs. "I guess you can say that he found me."

"Oh Jesus are those arms real?!"

They spend the rest of the day on the boardwalk and some on the pier. They watch the boats sail over the sea and he people scampering about the shoreline playing tag with wave as it comes crashing in. They eat lunch at Izzy's favourite seafood restaurant which serves deep fried chilli crab legs on a stick and the best Clam Chowder which Clint has ever tasted.

They make their way back to the airport before sunset with Izzy sleeping peacefully in Clint's arms. The bear tucked under her arm and the unicorn being carried by her father. Coulson with a plushie was a sight to behold. They have a dozen or so plastic and paper bags now. For once, he's thankful for the private plane because there is no way airport security will let all these bags be taken as carry-ons.

Clint follows Coulson to one of the bedrooms. Coulson removes her shoes and her socks, then disentangles her hair from its tie. The blonde puts her down, careful not to jostle her from sleep. Izzy settles in with half a turn before snuggling into the comforters. She makes a happy sighing noise before her breathing evens out again. Coulson brushes a few stray strands of hair off his daughter's face with a pliant expression on her face.

"She looks so much like her mother when she's asleep." He says without really realizing that he said it out loud.

"I bet she was a looker, wasn't she, sir?"

Coulson blinks but then slowly nods. "Indeed she was."

Skye knocks on the door. "Hey" she greets before stepping inside. "You boys can take a rest. I'll watch over her for the meantime."

For Clint, it's the perfect opportunity to flee. He fires a hasty goodbye to both Skye and Coulson before leaving the room without bothering to look back. He makes a beeline for the entertainment room, the one with the fully stocked bar and  huge flat screen TV. He jumps over the countertop and snatches the first bottle of alcohol he could gets his hands on.

He pulls out a glass and pours himself a drink. He does all of this in one swift motion like he's been behind the bar counter for most his life. He downs the scotch in one gulp. It burns down his throat. He exhales deeply, hands firmly planting themselves on the wooden countertop. He's exhausted. He can be in his nest for more than forty-eight hours at a time but this undercover stint was draining him both mentally and physically.

_"This is Captain May. Ladies and gentlemen please stay seated for take-off."_

Clint slides down and slumps behind the counter with a groan. He pulls out his Coulson-phone and begins typing his report to Fury. The energy and concentration needed for him to push out a half-way decent report has always been a good distraction to get his mind out of over thinking things. He takes remembers every single store they went to and every single person Coulson talked to in near-perfect detail.

"Boo" a voice comes from above him. Only his years of training save him from flinching. He looks up. Above him is May, the pilot with her hair letdown and her jacket discarded. She's eased up enough to unbutton the first hole in her shirt as well. She's staring down at him, seemingly upside-down from his field of vision. "Why are you holed up there?"

"I'm resting." he replies simple. If she doesn't believe him, she doesn't comment on it. She's got the passive pilot-mask. He only knows this because he's seen the crack in it earlier.

"You're Coulson's new thing, right?"

Ha groans because this is apparently his life. "No, I'm his bootylicious secretary that has no real purpose but his eye candy. So yes, I am his new thing."

To his surprise, May actually laughs. Then she scoots off the counter and walks away. At least Clint thinks she was walking away. It takes a solid minute before a rhythmic thudding came from behind him. Clint sends the file and crawls up to peer from the bartop. His eyes widen.

"You have a dartboard?!"

From where she stands, she gives Clint a once over before walking back to the firing distance and throwing three consecutive bull eyes. "Wanna play?"

"Sure" he says with a shrug. He intentionally misses a couple of rounds just to get a better feel of her. Then finally says. "So navy, army, or air force?"

Now, it's May's turn to freeze up. To anyone else she looked exactly the same but Clint's well-trained eyes could see the rigidness on her posture and the shift if her weight to one foot--ready to either fight or flight.

"Air force" she answers after a while. "Then CIA"

The second part, he wasn't expecting.

She stop mid-throw, something predatory in her eyes. Clint can see how her grip on the dart had changed from a toy to a deadly weapon.

"What's an ex-CIA agent doing as a hired pilot?" He asks.

"What's an ex-carnie doing security work?" She shoots back.

Clint fake falters. "You tell me and I tell you. How does that sound?"

She lowers the dart by a millimetre. "You first." She orders. Clint figures he can always just incapacitate her and hide her in the bathroom if this goes south  although he doubts it'll be able to contain her for long.

"Surveillance and protection." He tells her.

"Bull" she snaps. She's suddenly in his space, dart dangerously close to his jugular. Okay, not CIA then. Because CIA folk are fish fry. This one isn't. "Look here, kid, I've known Phil for a long time. I don't know what Fury thinks sending in a pretty face but you better be efficient---"

Clint snaps on Fury's name. He pushes her back while disarming her. The dart drops to the floor. She's bubbling to fight back. He drop-kicks her and she jumps. She lands with hands on his shoulder and she's throwing him up. He lands on his feet and she runs to him. Her legs grapple over his neck and he goes down to the floor.

Holy effing fuck. He knows that move. He brings hands up to his face and waves her off.

"You're the Cavalry, aren't you?"

Her half-swung leg literally halts in mid-air. "How did you---?" Suddenly the realization hits her. "You're Hawkeye?"

Clint sits up, running hands over his suit as he barks laughing. "You and I have a mutual friend."

"Widow" she finishes.

"I call her Nat."

Her while demeanour changes. Clint's only seen that done effectively two times and the only other person who's done that was Natasha. It occurs to him that Coulson has more than a few acquaintances than necessary.

"So you're SHIELD too, aren't you?" He asks her, completely innocent, not really expecting a proper answer. Fury did mention another specialist in play but he would have thought that they should have known each other. Collateral damage was too common in espionage. He also didn't think it would be the Cavalry. He's heard about the Cavalry on the rumour mills in the academy during basic. It seems to get more flourished with each generation.

She shakes her head. "I am retired."

"But why are you here?" He can't believe he is asking it.

She goes over the counter, pulls out a bottle out the bottle of scotch which he had been nursing earlier. "This is retirement. Plus, Phil is my friend."

"You mentioned."

May offers him a finger of scotch. "So is the puppy love clear or is it just cover?"

Clint groans. "His whole staff thinks we're fucking. It was easier to adjust the cover than pretend it's not there."

She laughs. Its smooth and light and actually kind of honest. "And is that the way you waggle you butt in front of him or does that come natural to you?"

Clint nearly spits out his drink. "I resent that. My ass happens to be natural! Besides he's not. I don't think he leans that way, to be honest."

May, leaning on the couch across him, shrugs. "Phil is a phil." She huffs out. "Either you're as good as Widow on this spy-thing or you're gone for him."

"Maybe I am just that good." He says smug, hiding a smirk behind his glass.

"Good at what?" Coulson quips, coming into the room seemingly out of nowhere. He gives May a small glance-nod combo before reaching out with a glass of his own. She fills it wordlessly. "I am assuming he knows."

May only nods in response. "I'll be in the cockpit." She informs him, offering the bottle of scotch before turning around to leave. Coulson takes the bottle and sets it down on the bar.

"Like I said: good at what, Barton?"

Clint shrugs from his position on the couch with feet propped up the table. He is balancing the chair on its back legs.  "At my job of course. I'm good at what I do, sir."

"Excellent" the older man says. Then there's that thinly veiled smile again. He takes a seat across Clint, settling down by crossing his legs and placing his glass on the table--with a coaster. "Status report. Brief but detailed. We haven't got the time." He asks like he is talking about something like the weather and not a highly sensitive on-going investigation. Compared to other jobs, it's a milk run.

"I've narrowed down the suspect list on your staff, sir. Only got two persons left. One from security and the other in HR. everyone else is clean." Clint tells the man mechanically. The older man never flinches and gives him a _go on_ look instead. "Minimal threat to an inside attack. It'll most probably be an outside attempt where you'll be vulnerable. I'll talk to Lucas about alternative routes."

He huffs. It's minimal Intel, nothing a regular analyst wouldn't find. "I mean seriously, sir, you've got to give me something to go on. It's like going into a fire-fight without ammo." He says exasperated. It was true. The only things he knows are a) Coulson was Fury's friend and b) Coulson was being threatened by what and by whom, he has no idea. It was part of his job to find out.

"I don't believe it's anything serious but Nick seems to think otherwise. It's nothing out of the ordinary for someone in this business. Once you go in, you can never go out. That's why I didn't even want to on the first place but..." Coulson stops and holds his lips in a thin line. He looks conflicted at the amount of information he just revealed. "Would you like to see the threats?"

Clint tried not to look as curious as he feels. He waves the man off, feigning nonchalant, and replied with "Sure thing, boss."

They head up to Coulson's office. It was on the upper floor through a sleek spiral staircase. It's a humble sized space with dark woods, a bookshelf, and a leather couch. Coulson's work desk is at the far end, clean except for a small framed picture. It's turned away so Clint can't see it. There's a medal hanging at the wall.

"Wow, sir." Clint gasps. "Rangers?"

Coulson's shoulder tightens but he answers nonetheless. He was hiding something and it would have gone unnoticed if Clint's didn't have the best eyes in SHIELD. "Served a tour or two. How did you see that?"

Clint fails to look humble but he has a shit-eating grin on his face. "Best eyes in the field, sir. My aim is not half-bad either." He goes over to the large couch and plops down. It's more comfortable than his lumpy old mattress in the apartment. He can't help but sigh in content. "Man, this beats the barrack."

Coulson tosses a tablet into the air without ever looking up from his phone. He seems to have downloaded something onto it via bluetooth. The blond jumps when it lands squarely on his chest. He bolts up to stare dumbfound at the other man. "Shall we get started, agent?"

Clint dry swallows and nods. "Sir, yes, sir" He says all military as he could muster. He was mentally counting his angels that his suit pants were tailored enough not to betray the dick-flinch. He wasn't a gender-static guy. He always went with the flow and let it take him where ever. This was the first time he since Tasha that he was physically reacting to a mark. If there was one thing for certain--he loved competence and Coulson was exuding it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it. I am sorry there wasn't much CC-interaction in this chapter. It was difficult for me to write. I wanted Clint to learn more about Coulson without asking the man himself so, tadaaah~, other characters have to come into play. I haven't started the next chapter yet but let's see where it goes: it's the circus!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint learns more about his sexy boss. He also let's them learn a little more about him.

They booked a two-bedroom grand suite with a fully functional kitchen, a spacious living area with a grand piano, and a small in-door swimming pool, on the highest floor of the hotel. Clint's first instinct was to do a security sweep of the room before doing a perimeter check on the building, and the rest of the block. The hotel itself had strong European influences, from the decor to the support staff who all had weird English-accents. The lights were mostly tungsten, giving the various common spaces a yellowish glow, and nearly all the furniture was made of dark heavy woods. It was like going back in time to medieval Europe.

Izzy squealed in glee as she saw the space. "Daddy! Daddy!" She called out, running to the large antique grand piano at the far end corner of the room. She was a wearing an over-sized fluffy brown sweater, leg warmers, and boots. She changed into warmer clothes back on the place before alighting. Minnesota weather was the complete opposite of sunny New Jersey. She lifted with key covers without preamble, gesturing for her father to follow sit beside her.

"Oh honey, be careful" Coulson chastised, but it was weak and he was smiling. "You might hurt your fingers. Remember teacher Laila?" He said while he approached her. He took a sweat beside his daughter on the lower-end of the keys. He smiled at her as he slowly placed his fingers on the keys. He began to play a soft, soothing melody. Izzy looked up at him with uncertain eyes. One of her hands shaky as she reached for a piano key. "Go on, sweetheart." he encourages softly.

Clint can only watch in amazement as the gentle melody fills the room. He later feels Skye take-up the space beside him but he doesn't even turn. His eyes cannot turn away from the sight before him. She sighs softly, listening. Coulson plays the base melody that is repetitive but complex. Izzy play with a single hand in single-notes, then eventually uses both. By the end of the song, Izzy is laughing with her father. She stands, takes a bow at their two-person audience, then invites Sky to join her.

Coulson steps off the platform and takes up the space which Skye had vacated. "Shall we have some dessert brought up?" he asks, looking at Clint. It takes the agent by surprise. He doesn't formulate a response.

"Sir, I...?" he stammers. The awkward stuttering does not deter Coulson. Instead, he leans closer enough that his breath brushes over Clint's ear. "Dessert" he repeats "Perhaps some bubble for the adults and a sparkler for Isabella. It's a pity to waste such a warm ambiance, isn't it?" Clint is blushing up to his ears by the time that Coulson is finished speaking.

"R--right." He mumbles, dodging Coulson's hand and going for the menu list which he saw near the kitchen. Once safely away, he stopped, gripping the countertop to steady himself. Coulson is straight, he reminded himself, even if he were bent he isn't the type to sleep around with an ex-assassin for hire. He runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. "Snap out of it, Clint. You're got a mission to finish then you'll be free from training for a month. You can have all the range time you want, just get this done."

Someone chuckled from the archway. "So it's not a promotion" Coulson says.

Clint has to blink twice before he realizes that Coulson has managed to sneak up on his against. He didn't even hear a single whisper of fabric! He froze. That was statistically impossible unless it was Natasha or even Fury. He turned around, slowly. "You know what I don't understand..." He tells the older man. "I don't understand why Fury would pull an out-of-the-books ops on a civilian with a high security clearance. Which makes me think that you might not be a civilian at all, sir. You have a fully functional place which has all the necessities of home and a make-shift office, state of the art camouflage technology, and the _cavalry_ as your pilot. I may not have been at SHIELD then but there are rumours that Fury once had another second-in-command before AD Hill."

Coulson does not seemed fazed. He walks over to Clint, slots himself beside the younger man, without even breaking eye contact. He leans forward, body pressing against Clint's hips as he reaches for the menu list behind the blond. "Never let May hear you say that. She hates that name." Coulson tells him with a tinge of light humour in his voice. "She'll kill you on the spot."

Clint has to cough out an awkward laugh. "Already did. I'm still alive." he cockily says.

Coulson actually looks shocked at that piece of information. "I'm surprised, to be honest." He says, glancing down over the cream coloured pages. "You're still standing. Did she use the roundhouse kick on you?"

Clint shakes his head. "Double-neck grapple" he explains.

Coulson hums non-committal. "I haven't seen her use that one yet. You should show me sometime." He seems to find an interesting item and makes a happy noise. "This looks good. _Baked custard with rhubarb granita_. _Chocolate and hazelnut croquant with  popcorn sorbet_. And old fashion fruits fondue." He ended up ordering all three desserts and they were delivered within the next fifteen minutes. The night progressed and it was soon time for bed.

Clint, who had been too pre-occupied with securing the area, failed to notice one glaring reality of the situation--only two bedrooms. It was not an issue-area when he did his earlier check. Now that it was time to retire, he had to re-evaluate his options: Coulson and Isabelle would probably take the first bedroom, and Skye would take the other. That leaves him to the couch. The second option, with Skye and Isabelle sharing a room, and Coulson taking the last one; it also left him on the couch. It was by far the fanciest couch he'd even slept on and it beat the last recon safehouses he's stayed in.

Isabelle ended up saying good-night and Skye following right behind her. Option two then. Coulson also takes his leave and enters the room. He leaves the door open. Clint takes his small bag and pulls it to the couch. He hears the sound of the shower from Coulson's room. He takes his waistcoat off, pulls out his tie, and releases the first few buttons of his shirt. He massages his neck for a bit; he's not used to wearing a three-piece suit for work every single day. His normal clothes are SHIELD-issue t-shirt and cargo pants. He leans back, debating whether or not it's appropriate to put his leather-shoed feet on the expensive glass coffee table. Fuck it, he decides, this isn't Coulson's mansion, so he does.

He leans back against the plush white sofa and feels a cool breeze on forehead. He shivers. It's going to be a cold night here in the living room. Maybe he should rummage around the cupboards if there's an extra pair of linen. He traps his eyes with his palms and breathes evenly through his nose. He can feel the tension still vibrating under his skin. He cannot find it in himself to relax. Three days of non-field work and he hasn't had a chance to hold his bow since his last mission. He's jittery. He also hasn't had a wank in a while and Coulson's broad-shouldered suits aren't helping his libido.

"Clint, what are you still doing out here?" Skye breaks through his thoughts. "Aren't you going to your room?"

"My rooms?" Clint parrots, looking at her bewildered.

"Yes, you're room. You don't have to be careful with me. Isabelle's already asleep and she's too young to understand it anyways. Don't worry. I won't tell a soul that you shared a room with Coulson." She says cheekily. "I was just out for some water before bed. I thought you'd be inside by now."

"I--uh--right. I was just---"

"--letting me enjoy my shower" Coulson break in. He hover's close to Clint from behind the sofa and bends down. Clint can smell the clean scent of soap and shampoo on the man's skin. "I didn't want to disturb both Isabelle and you. So I took a bath first." Clint feels the droplets of water fall down his head and some landing on his cheek. Coulson's hand is on his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. "The shower's free. I'll see you in bed." he says without malice and turns to Skye. "I'll have a glass of water too. Shall you join me?"

Skye is beet-red by the time that the conversation ends. She gives Clint a kissy-wink and links her arms with Coulson. "Sure thing, MC. See you tomorrow, Clint."

Clint is momentarily dumbstruck. He enters the second bedroom. Coulson's laptop occupies the hotel-provided work table and his overnight bag is open atop the desk's chair. The attached bathroom door is open, warm steam coming from the inside. His face heats at the image of Coulson being here only moments ago, tall and broad and wet while taking his own shower. Clint has to visibly shake the image away. He cannot help his curiosity over the man he was supposed to be protecting.

He doesn't luxuriate in the showers. He makes quick and mechanical movements to clean himself from today's grime. It wasn't much. He was just a bit sweaty from the bay walk but apart from that he was fine. His other mission normally involved a whole lot more dirt and blood getting into his hair and underneath his nails. He dressed in a well-worn shirt with the SHIELD too faded to even be visible and a pair of loose sweat pants. He towelled his hair as he exited the bathroom.

Coulson was already on the bed, leaning against the head board, with his tablet and a pair of glasses on his nose. He had removed the hotel bathrobe. Tonight he was wearing a plaid pair of pyjamas and looked devilishly regal even as he lounged. "I do apologize for this, Barton. But it was the only way in which we both can maintain your cover. Besides, it's not like we haven't shared a bed before. You remember your first night at home, yes?"

Clint grew red. He remembered that night. "That was a mistake." he mumbled. He moved stiffly to the other side of the bed, lifting up the covers. He wasn't used to sleeping with someone else. But somehow, he had managed to sleep beside Coulson once before. He can probably to it again. He shifted to his size, back towards the older man and huddled under the thick duvet. "Good night, sir."

"Good night, Barton."

***

_"Yes, yes. He's fine... no, Marcus, I'm not out of my mind... I--I'm settling. (laughs). You know I can't discuss those with you, even if you are my best friend... Tony is Tony... yes, I understand... (chuckles). Who says it's final? .. We've already talked about this. It's my choice. Yes, I know... hold on. I--I--... let's settle it for next time. Goodbye."_

Clint wakes up to the gentle rumbling of his pillow. He buries his face in its warm, smooth surface. It's warm and comfortable and he just wants to settle here forever. He's sleeping on the most comfortable bed in the world--soft, warm, and wrapping around him. It's also---moving. He slowly blinks his eyes open. The first of the sun's rays are settle over his eyes. He moves an arm to cover his face, only to discover that it's covered by a weight. He freezes. Blue is the first thing he sees--blue plaid.

"Oh jesus fuck" he thinks aloud, voice scratchy and dry.

"I see you're finally awake, Barton" Coulson says from above him "and from the state of our clothing, I would say that, no, we didn't fuck." the older man deadpans.

Clint doesn't move a muscle as he comes to the realization that he's _on top of Coulson_. Not on top, really, but half-sprawled over his supposedly new boss with the audacity to actually use the man's arm as a pillow. Shit. God only knows how long they've stayed in this position. He pulls away, feeling the man's gave tingle on the back of his neck. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to--fall asleep like that. I guess I was just---just feeling exhausted that's all."

Coulson sits up beside him. "No harm, no foul. It doesn't matter, Barton. We aren't due for breakfast in another hour or so anyway. And I think neither Isabelle nor Daisy are up yet. Care to help me whip something up from the kitchen? I don't function well unless I've had my morning cup of coffee." He swings his legs off the bed and stands up, leaving Clint gawking at him.

"Yes, sir!"  

They pad into the kitchen: Coulson in the hotel's fluffy white slipper and Clint on barefoot. The younger man hisses as the cool tile meets his warm foot. "Jesus, it's freezing out here." He mutters under his breath. Coulson makes a noncommittal sound.

"Why don't you get the fireplace going. I think there's at least a few inches of snowfall from last night. Today is bound to be cold. What time is our tickets?"

Clint obediently goes to the fireplace and does as instructed. "I booked us the afternoon show for 3pm. That should give us enough time to relax for the morning."

"The plans sounds perfect. I've got a matter I need to consult with you in private. I would not bring my family further into this. I'll ask Daisy if she can bring Isabelle out for some shopping. That way we can have a few hours to ourselves." Coulson comments when he steps back into the kitchen.

"What are you making, sir?" he asks, gesturing to the series of utensils which Coulson has laid out.

"I've asked the hotel to pre-stock the kitchen before we left New York. They've conceded to my requests in the past. Plus, it's Isabelle's first time here. She might be a bit homesick, so I'm preparing her favourite breakfast."

"And what would that be, sir?" Clint walks up to the island counter and perches himself on a tall stool. He plants both elbows on the marble and rests his chin on top of his hands. Coulson is a sight for sore eyes; he's got his long plaid sleeves rolled up to show his fore arms and a towel tucked into his pyjama bottoms. He looks utterly domestic and completely different from President Coulson in the office. In response, the man pulls out a whole tray of eggs and a bag of bread from the fridge.

"Brioche Fresh Toast" Coulson declares. "My wife used to make this a lot for Isabelle whenever we went overseas. It's often our first breakfast in a new country. Something like tradition, I suppose, for good luck that all three of us would come back home together safely... I haven't made it in a while so I might be a little rusty."

"I'm sure it'll be great, sir." Clint said with a grin. "You know, I haven't seen someone make a real breakfast in a long time. My mother and brother... used to cook all our meals at home before the accident happened. I was too young to do anything but be the taste-tester. Then it was just my brother and me. It wasn't much. We'd scrape together whatever bargain groceries we could buy at the time and experiment in the kitchen. Whether we failed or we succeeded, we had to eat what we cooked. Or else, it might have been a while before we could eat something decent again."

"What happened?" Coulson asks while mixing the egg-milk batter in a large glass bowl. "Did something happen?"

Clint fidgeted at the question.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I was just making conversation."

"No, it's good. I guess I haven't spoken to anyone about this for some time." He glanced down, swinging his legs beneath him. "I guess you can say that we just drifted apart. He finished his GEDs, went to college, and eventually landed himself a job working for the FBI. He's been real busy ever since. And I... I enlisted in the army but it wasn't for me. I got a dishonourable discharge when DADT was still in place. After that I got caught up in the wrong kinds of people.. and that's where Fury found me."

"Oh I know this story already. He was ecstatic when he recruited you, ya know."

"Yea?" Clint says with half a smile. "He says I reminded him of someone but I never learned who. What about you, sir?"

Coulson hums while frying up the first set of toast. "Me, what, Barton?"

"I saw the photo on the plane. Why did you leave the service, sir?"

"I, uh, my wife--no, she wasn't my wife yet--Audrey. Audrey was my neighbour and childhood friend. She had a heart condition since birth and used to get sick all the time when we were kids. There were summers when her heart was just too bad that she was confined to a wheelchair. She was three years older than me. Always sweet and smiling all the time despite her condition. It was so obvious that I would fall in-love. But she was arranged to marry someone her father picked."

"But you came back, right, sir? Or else you wouldn't have had Isabelle."

"We kept in touch. I would write to her during my deployment. She left for England and received some kind of stem-cell treatment to save her heart. I didn't hear from her for six months and when I did, she told me that her heart was getting better. She finally had the strength to say no to the engagement and broke it off. I came back from Iraq and I proposed to her. I quit when we got married and she eventually got pregnant. Isabelle was born nine months later. For a while, I thought it was a happily-ever-after."

"I'm so sorry, sir. I--I didn't realize..." Clint stumbled, bowing his head. "I didn't mean for you to remember all those sad memories." Then he felt the weight of a hand settle over his head. He looked up to see Coulson smiling tenderly at him.

"They aren't sad memories at all. I feel happy when I remember her. Here" he says, pushing a plate of warm buttery toast in front of Clint. "It's her secret recipe."

"Daddy?" A voice mumbled from the door. "Som'fing sm'lls goo'..." Isabelle says walking into the kitchen while still rubbing at her eyes. Clint spins around and smiles at the little girl.

"Good morning sweetheart" Coulson says.

"Good morning, princess." Clint greets. "Your daddy and I were getting ready for breakfast. Do you want to join us?"

"Mmm'kay." she replies. "toast?"

Clint steps off the stool and scoops the little girl into his arms. "Sure is, princess. Daddy made if especially for you. He's been up working real hard to cook breakfast for his baby." Izzy turns in his arms and wraps her arms around his neck, nuzzling. "Sweeepy" she complains and Clint rubs circles on her back. He carries her over to his previous spot and re-claims his seat.

Coulson leans over the counter and kisses his daughter on the forehead. "What would you like to drink, sweetheart?"

"Juice" Izzy mumbles on Clint's shoulder. "App'e juice"

He turns to Coulson with an apologetic look. "She's normally very touchy in the morning, as you've noticed. I can wake Daisy up, if she becomes too much."

Clint shakes the older man off. "Nonsense, sir. Izzy being a perfect little angel." he replies "I never thought I'd have kids, ya know? I had a wife once. We didn't work out and ended up getting divorced. Good thing there wasn't a kid yet. I wouldn't want him or her to go through all that rough thing or getting stuck in the middle. Thirty-six now, and counting. I ain't getting any younger and I ain't planning on getting re-married anytime soon. I thought she was the one."

Coulson just stares at him. "I wouldn't have guessed that you've been married before."

Clint flinches. "Yeah... I think she was just charmed by my cocky younger self." he fake laughs it off. "I think it was better for us to end. She was in-love with the idea of me and I was in-love with the idea of her. We were never going to raise a fully functioning kid together."

"Any plans of getting married in the future?"

Clint shakes his head. "I might not. What I do... it's not fair to raise a family when I can just _not_ come back from a mission. It wouldn't be right. No worries, sir. I can take care of myself. I'm a big boy, you know."

"Clint, I---" the use of his given name shocked both of them. "I just want you to know that even when this assignment is over, you can always come visit us. Izzy loves you and I--I might miss you just a little bit too."

"Aww shucks, sir. If this wasn't a mission, I would say that you just sounded like you've fallen for me." Clint says, fluttering his eyes lashes. Coulson can see through him like glass and flicks a finger over his forehead.

"Don't push your luck, agent."

Clint manoeuvres Izzy on his lap and grabs a fork. He takes his first mouthful of food and moans when the bread feels like it's melting in his mouth. "Cook like this every day and I would marry you either way, sir. This is awesome."

"Dad'y?" Izzy mumbles on his shoulder. "Cwint?"

"Hey baby" Coulson coos from the other side of the counter. "You should wake up now. Breakfast is getting cold, sweetie." Isabelle flutters her eyes open and positively beams again. She smiles brightly at both of them.

"It's just like with mama" she says, looking down at the food on the table. Coulson pats her on the head. "Yes, sweatheart, just like when your mama was around."

Clint's feels his stomach drop. He shouldn't be getting jealous of a dead woman. He shouldn't be getting jealous at all. But this, right here, was something that he's always wanted to have--a family.

***

The air smelled like butter popcorn, cotton candy, and soda when they arrived at the theatre. The sun was still high in the sky but the gusty wind was freezing due to half-melted snow. Kids and adults alike lingered in every corner-shop and store which surrounded the _____ Theatre; all wearing their thick winter coats or jackets. Sunlight glimmered on every reflective surface making the scene feel like it was somewhat from a movie. Clint took a moment to take it all in; he hadn't been a mere spectator before. He's never seen this side of the circus.

Outside, an unusually Asian woman wearing a traditional Chinese _quipao_ in jade which flowed like waves on the sidewalk. Her face was painted in pure white, eyes and lips painted in shades of the blue-green ocean. Her twinkling gold cat-slit eyes greeted each and every patron with a feral smile. Her petite parasol was one-of-a-kind, shaped in the form of a majestic  <<blue-green fish>>. She was the ocean personified, her movements graceful and smooth.

"Dad'y" Isabelle mumbled against her thumb, one hand held firmly in her father's larger palm. Clint turned to the little girl and bent down. He smoothed the short baby hairs away from her face and said gently. "Don't be scared, princess. Isn't she just like you? She's a princess too--a princess of the seven seas." He held out his palm "Wanna go meet a princess today?" Then she beamed, nodding.

"I can meet the princess?" She asked, looking up at her father with hopeful puppy dog eyes. "Can I...?"

Coulson smiled back. "Of course you can, sweatheart. But you have to bring your knight with you." He turned to Clint with a questioning look. "Are you sure about this?"

Clint smirked in reply. "Sure thing, bossman. Little princess if going to meet that tall lady over there. Shouldn't be a problem." He didn't have to go very far. He caught her gaze half-way across the sidewalk and waved. The smile on her face couldn't be any bigger. She moved on her own, headed towards them.

"Well, well, well... what brings you here, little bird?" She says in a teasing voice. She even crouches down, a tiny bit, in order to meet Clint's eyes. Her eyes grew wide as she spotted Isabelle from behind him. "My, my, I would never have imagined our little bird had made a nest of his own... Hello, young one. Isn't she a little darling!"

Clint chuckled as he pulled the little girl into his arms. "Hello to you too, Macie. But she ain't mine. I work for her pa, now. " he says cheekily. "She look like she's mine, ain't she?" True enough, he had seen some sort of resemblance between them. It was primarily because Isabelle Coulson' has inherited her long golden tresses from her mother and her father's soft blue eyes. Clint didn't think any of it until Macie had mentioned it to him.

"Of course, she does, little bird. So much like you when you were younger; small, fat, and round in the face." She teases.

"Oh stop it, don't you make her cry." Clint says steely.

"Hush, dear. I was only teasing." She says. "Are you here for the show? I see the tickets peeking out of your breast pocket."

"Clint?" Coulson's voice breaks their conversation. "Is everything all right?"

Clint turns and nods. "Of course, it is, boss." He replies. "Macie, this is this little princess' father and my new boss. Boss, this is Macie we used to perform together."

"Oh" Coulson says then " _oh_ " he says again. His eyes widen as the realization sinks in. "You've never said a word. I didn't..."

"Nah" Clint waves him off. "It's cool. I could have said something but I didn't. It's not your fault that you didn't know. Carson's is my old crew. I was one of their performers when I was smaller."

"You betcha" Macie agrees. "This little pipsqueak was part of the main attraction. You left right after the swordsman did, didn't you? Pa, would never really tell me about it."

"Yeah..." Clint fidgeted. "I---I don't really wanna talk about it."

"Well, it's fine. You folks should go get your seats. The shows about to start soon. Be good dears and applaud the warm-up acts, won't you. It's just like you and Barns, we've got a pair of twin girls doing your old tricks. But, you were still better. They'll need some encouraging to get on their way." Macie said, ushering them inside with double the coupons for butter popcorn.

Stepping into the theatre was like going back in time. Clint could imagine how each and every stage decor was made and mounted on the stage scaffolding. He remembered the days when they used to do the refurbishing and paintwork of the props and taking care of the animals on the long travels. The entire area was humming with soft instrumental background music. He recalls how noisy and frantic and alive the backstage was.

"Where are we seated?" Skye asks from behind him.

"I think we're on the second tier." Clint replied, pulling out his tickets and stopped mid-step.

"Clint? Is there something wrong?"

"The tickets" he responds. "These aren't our tickets."

"What do you mean, these aren't out tickets? They came from your pocket, didn't they?"

"Yeah but..."

"Your friend must have switched them out." Coulson explains, taking the tickets from Clint's hand. "They're in the orchestra section." He says, sounding like he doesn't believe it himself.

Clint shrinks. "We should take them back..."

"Nonsense. MC, these seats are amazing! We should totally use them." Skye cajoles. "I think it one of bests seats in the house and they _gave_ it to us. It'll be such a waste..."

Coulson huffs and his shoulders sag a tiny bit. "Alright, alright. As long as nobody comes to take them away. A little fun won't hurt, right?"

Clint pales. They take their seats in the middle of the orchestra section. It's got perfect eye-level view of the entire stage. He sits beside Coulson. Isabelle is between her father and Skye. Coulson turns to look at him just as the lights dim. "Thank you, Barton." And Clint--he's never been more thankful for the darkness because Coulson cannot see his face.

The warm-up act was good but a bit raw. Clint can recognize their mistakes even before they make them. He's seen those mistakes before because he's made them himself in the past with his brother. Every main act started as a front act before they could reach the big dome. These twins, agile as they were, would never be able to make it together. They had a skill that everybody else can learn with patience. He sees the raw potential in only one of them. It's the smaller one who still has time to hone his skills before puberty can set in.

"They're good, aren't they?" Coulson whispers from beside him.

"They are but look over there" he responds, pointing out to the two-person pyramid in the middle of the stage. "The base doesn't have the core strength to hold her sister. She needs more to train her core muscles more or else that shaking won't stop. It's also, dangerous for the flyer." He says, with a pitying glance away. He doesn't expect Coulson to chuckle softly.

"You must have been a pretty good performer, weren't you?"

"Excuse me.. I was---" he cut himself off. "Nevermind. I was--decent." he huffs out, huddling further into his seat. Once he let himself relax, the show eventually became fun. For once, he could see how all their preparation came together. It was spectacular and majestic and sometimes enchanting to watch the lighting create shadows and the music creating drama. He was awed at how the production came together. He was swept by away by the performance.

Unlike before, the ring master was no longer a fat, balding old man with a long white beard. Nowaways, old man Carson's daughter runs the show. Macie steps onto the stage again in her black _cheongsam_ dress and Gaga-esque heels in silver.

 "Good evening once again, ladies and gentlemen, merfolk and sky-dwellers and children of this earth. I hope that ya'll are enjoying the show. For tonight's performance, we will be asking a special someone from the audience to join us on stage....." as she spoke, multiple spotlights in varying colours blazed into life, roaming the crowd from all three-levels. "Now for those of you in the older generation, and those who have enjoyed the circus under the old man, I'm sure that our next guest will sound familiar.."

Clint did not like where this was headed to; he didn't like it at all.

"..after over two decades since his retirement, I would like to call on stage----the ah-maaaaaaaa-zing Hawkeye---the greatest marksman in the world. He'll be performing before our final act, if he so wishes to take the stage one more time. Can we give him a little cheer?!"

Everyone, especially those in the same row, gasps collectively. Coulson turns to face Clint with an expression bordering on reverence. "No, you can't be.. you must have been..." he says in shock. "Clint, you were Hawkeye?"

The traitorous spotlights choose that exact moment to converge on Clint, stopping whatever he was going to say. "What do you say, Hawk?" Marcie asks from the stage. The background and the platform, all transform into his previous act's layout--like going back in time. "Are you still as good as your younger self?"

Clint, being the knuckle-head (and in part wanting to show-off to his secretly-hot undercover boss), takes the challenge for what it is. He stands up and gives the crowd and awkward chest-level wave. He points to fingers up at her, then to the people he knows are hiding behind the curtain, and does the come-here gesture. Her eyes glint and she cocks her head at the stage crew for a second microphone. She throws it like a projectile, straight and stead, rolling as it went. He grabs it mid-flight by the handle. He was in full-Hawkeye mode now.

He presses his lips against his finger as he talks into the microphone. "I don't know, _Mistress_. I'll have to ask my new master, if I could." He glances down discreetly and positively beams when Coulson nods carefully. "Looks like you guys are all in luck. My new boss is a generous man. Should we all find out the answer to your question?" The crowd goes wild with applause.

"Oh man, have I missed this." He says dramatically, walking onto the stage. "But that's completely unfair. The entire crowd can see my face." He steps beside her. Without the stilts on her feet, and only a pair of four-inch heels, she was just about Clint's height. "Where's the mystery in that?" he teases.

She smirks at him. Her long fingers reach along his neck and undoes his tie, pulling it free. "Shall we use this?"

His smile is feral. "It's perfect." She obliges him by tying it over his eyes. She tugs a few times, securing the thing strip of fabric over the back of his head.

But Marcie seems to have more on her mind. "Aren't you stuffy in that fancy black suit of yours, dear?"

Clint waves her off. He looks to the crowd and says cheekily. "I have not done this in front of a live theatre audience---since ever. So you must all forgive me if I'm a little rusty." As he speaks, he goes through the motions of acquainting himself with the circus' bow. They still use a the traditional long bow for the performance because it adds more impact to the people watching. He takes an arrow, and lines it up. "I might--- _miss_ \--" he releases it and it lands dead centre of the target. "--or not"

The crowd applauses again.

"I clearly am not dressed for this." He says to the crowd and they laugh. He walks around to the stage, quiver of arrows newly attached to his hip, targets scattered around him. "I feel like I'm Oliver McQueen on that show called _Arrow_. Except I'm his little pet monkey." He doesn't break his stride or his speech when he fires several arrows in succession. They land on the targets one after the other, smack in the centre every single time.

"But aren't you underestimating me, a little here?" He tells the ring mistress. "Where's the horses and the elephants and the William'hell?"

Marcie's laugh echoes the theatre. "It's Willian Tell, dear. You never did get that right." The lights on stage clicked-off and two spotlights remained. "Now put your money where your mouth is." The second spotlight is at the very end of the stage, nearly twice the distance as his previous targets. Clint doesn't even dignify it with a response. He fires two arrows consecutively within a ten-second interval. The first one hits the dead centre and the second splits the first.

"Aww, you guys did miss me." Clint says. He wouldn't have broken a sweat if it wasn't for the spotlights. He was smiling by the end of it. It wasn't his best run; he could admit at least that. But then again, he hasn't done a live show even years since before he entered SHIELD. He has gone a long way from being a stable boy or a stage hand. He does and overly flourished bow before pulling off the makeshift blindfolds. The crowd goes wild.

Marcie approaches him from the right, clapping her hands. "It is still very much a pleasure to watch you, little bird." She tells him off-mic. "Shall I watch more off you after the performance?"

He ducks and shakes his head. "It's been a blast, Marcie, but I would have to decline." He apologizes. He glances over the shadowed audience, knowing exactly where his empty space was located. "I already have plans. Thanks for letting me shoot a few things with good ol' Betty. I missed her."

She smiles at him knowingly. She leans forward, kissing him on the cheek as she hugs him. "Ol' Betty is yours. None of us folk know how to shoot like you do." She tells him laughing. "Issuance doesn't cover being randomly pierced by stray arrows."

The show goes on. They make him exit through the back stage. There are still a lot of familiar faces but there are even more new ones. He greets them all one by one. They knew him before he had to burn his identities. In many ways, this was his family growing up. He eventually lost to the blur of nostalgia. He barely realized that the show had finally come to a close and the last parade of performers ended the night. It was amazing. He hadn't had this much fun since he was a punk-ass kid who didn't understand how the world works.

"Hawk!" One of the second-generation acrobats hollers to him from across the hall. "There are people here who says they're with you!"

"Cwiiiiiiint~!" Isabelle's scream echoes through the white corridors. Like a canon, she slices through the crowded space with her dainty frame towards him. She hit his legs with an audible 'oompff', cheeks flushed and breathing hard. "I met the princess!" She squeals, arms gripping the back of his knees in a tight embrace.

"Isabelle" her father's chastising tone came from behind her. Despite his tone, Coulson looked for all the world like he was calmly walking towards them. "What did I tell you about running away like that?"

"Oh my god, Clint. You were awesome out there! Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Skype asks, trailing not far behind. "That must have taken years! How did you manage learning all that while taking your degree?"

At the question, Clint pales. He had forgotten that part of his cover. Shit. He straightens his face and forces a fake smile. Inside his head, he scrambles for a plausible answer. He had been stupid and reckless. _This_ is the reason why he doesn't talk about his past. It fucks up his covers,  especially those which require him to lie about his age. "I, uhm..." he tries but fails to come up with a half-way decent answer. "You see, I..."

"I paid for his GED." Coulson says suddenly, shocking both Clint and Daisy. "I was a fan. I saw him perform way back when I was taking my MBA. But we lost touch after I first got deployed. I never really know what happened to the young archer that I had sponsored before I left." He explains with a looked that was a mix of embarrassment and pride. "I never found out what happened to him until he showed up again years later. Isn't that right, Clint?"

"Y--yeah." Clint says shakily. "I was around sixteen? I figured that I might as well finish it. So I left after graduating highschool and got an archery scholarship at Princeton." He gives Coulson a grateful look. "When I graduate, I looked up his name. I realized that we were in the same city. I didn't think that he'd offer me a job too. It's just like my own daddy-long-legs story." And the blush that covers his face is actually real that it's embarrassing.  

Skye drinks it up the excuse like water. "OH.MY.GOD. You two are too adorable for words! Did Audrey know?"

"Yes, she did." Coulson replied without missing a beat. "She also hoped that one day we would meet again but she never got the chance to see it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me get this out there. I love jealous!Coulson and clueless!Clint. It entertains me. 
> 
> Yes, I know everyone was expecting some kind of grand carnival. I said, circus not carnival. I'm so sorry if the circus-scene was sub-par. This chapter we learn a little more about both of our leading men. Does anyone have a clue about everything is all about yet? *evil laughter*. We'll learn more about the threats against Coulson in the next chapter. 
> 
> P.S.


	5. Chapter 5

"We're really doing this, aren't we?" Clint says, fluffing his floppy collar as they exited their Hotel. They had gone back to the hotel straight from the circus. Isabelle had an assignment due the next morning, Daisy reminded with a not-so-subtle wink. She recommended that the pair of them work on it together over dinner to give Izzy enough rest for tomorrow. She also hinted that it will be a good opportunity for Coulson to take Clint out to a quote nice dinner unquote at one of the many restaurants available. Isabelle was on-board with the idea, with a knowing look behind her eyes.

"Yes, we apparently are." Coulson replies, even going as far as to holding the cab-door open for Clint to slide in. Two-against-Clint, he took the defeat in grace and ordered them room service with an amused look on his face. The younger man gave him a curios look from inside the cab. He shrugs and points up with his eyebrows. "They've probably got their noses pressed against the window watching us." he says before sliding inside. He looks up and chuckles. "My eyes aren't that good anymore though."

"Here, let me." Clint half-crawls on Coulson's lap to get to the side-walk window of the backseat. He peers up the glass, uncaring for that Coulson is completely flustered beneath him. He arches his back, elbows falling on the tiny niche that was the passenger seat handle, to get a better view of the higher stories. By doing so, he plants his entire torso on Coulson's lap, chest against Coulson's knees. True enough, there are two figures in one of the windows with one tinier than the other. It takes no genius to deduce that it was a sneaky pair of Skye and Isabelle. He crawls off after confirming it for himself.

"So, the verdict?" Coulson asks, a bit breathlessly. "Was it Isabelle or Daisy who could not refuse a peak?" Clint notices one of two things. First; that Coulson is flushed and stiff, back a hard line against the recline rest. Second; Coulson is subtly, but not enough to his awkwardness, rearranging himself on the lumpy cushions. The realization makes Clint's face burn. Being in close-body contact was not unique in his line of work but that normally was a pre-negotiated deal with the operation. However, this wasn't a regular operation and Coulson was not an agent.

"Both, actually" he replies shyly, rubbing the back of his head with an open palm. His clothes, the cab's heater, and the fact that he may or may not have some kind of infatuation for the current mark, suddenly made everything a thousand degree warmer. He fingered the scarf around his neck, pulling it to give him some breathing space.

"You okay?" Coulson ask, worry overpowering his previous embarrassment. Which makes it so much more worse for Clint like the feeling was magically transferred to him.

"Yeah. Just a little hot." Clint confesses and, oh, admitting it aloud only increased in embarrassment two-fold. It made the already embarrassing situation _mortifying_. He forces himself to get it all back together. "You do realize that your, uhm, I don't know what to call her at this point, Daisy and your daughter just sent us out to go on a _date_."

Coulson nods, confirming the assumption. It only serve to confuse Clint even more.

"I understand, okay not really, but I kind of get what Skye is getting out of this, which really is too embarrassing to go into details right now, but Isabelle?" Clint says, running the his hands across his thighs in a nervous gesture. "What does Isabelle have to do with it?"

"Isabelle has always been a smart kid." Coulson merely chuckles. "I presume that Daisy has something to do with it."

"And you're letting them because?" Clint presses. "You are, really sir, not obligated to oblige their girl, uhm, fantasies. And I know you're, as you said, straight. So why are we bothering with dinner? You could have vetoed their choice and we would all be in the hotel right now. And you wouldn't have to spend any more money! Save everyone something."

"Barton, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps I enjoy the company?" Coulson deadpans with a serious expression, eyes staring boldly into Clint's.

"I---uh--" Clint balks. Then he lowers his gaze, finding the damp wet spots from fallen snow suddenly interesting. "I betcha you wouldn't have trouble finding more appropriate company, sir, than someone like me. I'm just another lackey that Fury sent out on a whim. I mean, you aren't a hardship to look at. And you're nice. And Isabelle is just wonderful. I'm sure for a man like you finding a lady-friend will be easy as pie."

Coulson sighs and his shoulders sag a little. "Ever since I took over for Matthias as CEO, it's harder to find someone without an ulterior motive. They either want a piece of the, as you kids call it these says, booty or use it as blackmail. That and being there for Isabelle when we lost Audrey... it hasn't been easy."

"Shit, sir, I'm sorry" Clint says ducking his head even further. "I didn't mean to be such an ass _again_."

"Truth, Barton?" Coulson suggest with the a sad look in his face and Clint merely nods. "It's lonely being me."

 "But what about your friends, sir? Colleagues?" Clint, being Clint, does not realize how insensitive his question is so he continues. He finds it unbelievable that a man like Coulson has no other friends in the world apart from his dead wife's half-sister and Nick Fury. He's house-staff obviously adore him and are loyal down to their bones. Come to think of it, he has not interacted with anyone outside the work. It's not until now that Clint notices this particularity. "You must have some, right?"

Coulson tenses at the question. "I can't really talk to them much." he says dejectedly. "They're all part of a different life, the one I had before marrying in Audrey. It's a... difficult situation. She changed things for me. I owe her everything. That's why I---" he trailed off. The cab stopped before Clint could ask him any further.

The restaurant that Coulson had chosen was a small, out of the way, steakhouse far away from the rows upon rows of high-end. The inside was dark browns, black, and yellows with a slight hint of red. The hostess approached them with a warm smile. "Table for two, gentlemen?"

Coulson shook his head. "We've got another party waiting inside." he said "I think the table should be under the name Johnson." The hostess nodded, punching a few things on her touch-screen computer for a minute before confirming Coulson's suggestion.

"You friend is already here." She confirms. "Let me lead you to your table." She walks them into the dining area. It's a small place, with less than thirty tables. Clint knows immediately where they'll be seated. It's a corner booth at the edge of the room with a perfect view of the entire area. "Enjoy your meal, gentlemen."

Nicholas Joseph Fury is seated on the couch. The clothes he wore was less _do not test me agent because I will hesitate to incapacitate your ability to procreate_ and more _I will fire your motherfucking ass just because I can_ tailored black suit without the outer jacket. It was still all black but he was less frightening without the leather trench coat. Clint has never seen the man in anything less than his trench coat. The sight was weird.

"Phil" Nick greets, looking up with his good eye. Then he beckons for them to take the seats across him with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

"Nick" Coulson responds, sliding into the booth. He was cool as a cucumber like he did not just sit across the scariest man in the entirety of SHIELD hierarchical organization. Instead, it was meeting an old friend for the first time in a long while. He took the glass that was generously slid across him, sniffing it before taking a sip. "A Johnnie, really?" he says with a disgusted face before sliding it back.

"Figure it might jostle your memory." Fury shrugs. "Barton, will you stop staring like an idiot and sit your ass down?" he commands without glancing up. Clint sits down, ass smacking against the wood, like a lost puppy. Shock, still evident in his features because why the hell is Nick Fury here in Minnesota on a freezing Sunday night? It was a whole different level of confusion all together.

Coulson stays in place, letting length of their thighs to press together. "Are you here to admit you were wrong about the gravity of the threats and to call of your dogs?" He asks in a matter-of-fact tone, folding his hands over the table like the entire thing was one big negotiation. "The kid's been here a week and we found nothing. It's obviously a witch-hunt, Nick."

"No" Fury laughed. Not the friendly, _it's over let's get this all behind us_ laugh, but the kind that he used when he was right and he wanted to rub it in. "It's much worse. This popped into our alert systems this morning. Guess which of the big bad wolves has just gotten into a plane to NYC?" he says, sliding a large manila envelope in Coulson's direction. "I think you might be able to remember his face."

Coulson nodded, receiving the envelope with the open palm. He plucked it off the table and carefully pulled out a single CCTV-screen shot of a man. He regarded Fury silently and the other man began to continue.

"Since we're in the government's mainframe, our facial recognition software picked up his face and flagged him. We're looking into why he's back in town and which of his known safe houses he'll be staying-in but it's a long shot. I've got people listing all his previously known acquaintances inside New York. We'll get them under a surveillance watch and see which ones he'll try to get in contact with. With the threats on your life, we both know that it's not just a coincidence that a ghost from your past is coming back to haunt you."

Coulson stares at him blankly before making a slow nod. "Funny. He used to be the _guerilla_ -type. Never knowing he's there until he strikes. Age make him a cocky bastard, hasn't it?"

"Those threats may not have been his idea. Since when did Sorensen strike you as a mastermind? I don't think that he's entirely behind this. He's hired gun. Grunt work. Someone is paying him to pull the trigger aimed at your head. Seems like you haven't been as low-key as you wanted to, Cheese. Time to get the rookie up to speed. We'll brief in the morning. Dinner is still on you. You decide on how much you want him to know about you but I have the last say concerning information on mission parameters."

Clint merely blinked, feeling a strange sort of out-of-body experience as he watched the two men interact. It was evident that the two shared a thick history between them, a friendship deeper than what he initially expected. He underestimated the man when Fury called him one of his "dearest and oldest comrades". It was obvious, seeing them together, the pair was almost like blood-brothers with a deeply ingrained sense of trust and loyalty. He's eyes snapped up when he heard Fury refer to him. "Sir" he said automatically.

"Barton, what you are about to hear is strictly not to be repeated inside of SHIELD HQ or any other SHIELD compounds, territory, locale, etc. Fuck this shit. You get the point. It stays here and only here, for your ears only unless Phil here gives you the permission to do otherwise. If you so say, breathe, or even _think_ about sharing this information to anyone, I will _personally_ send your sorry little white ass to a permanent station in an- _fucking_ -tartica. Do you understand?" Furry tells--orders him.

"Sir, yes, sir. None of this ever happened or I can kiss my Bed-Stuy apartment goodbye." Clint affirms. "Got it. Do I have a super secret boys scout handshake as well? You know, since you boys are bringing me in on the little secret?" He asks with a sleazy grin. Instead of responding, Fury leans over the wooden table and slaps him on the back of his head. "Okay okay! I swear. Jesus, you'll kill all my brain cell then where would you find me. Fury, sir, Coulson, sir, I'm good. I promise."

Fury seems to accept that and nods. "Agent Barton, I would like to formally introduce you to Former SHIELD Assistant Director Phillip J. Coulson."

Clint blanches. "Jesus, I was right" He says with a mix of terror and happiness, terrified that the man's life was in danger but ecstatic that he has at least that part half-figured out. "You asshole, you totally deflected my question about it yesterday! Fuck! How did you do that?"

"It's a skill once necessary in my field." Coulson answers with a shrug, looking embarrassed (?) or shy (?). He flinched when Fury said his old title. "You, agent, need to improve on how to redirect a deflection."

"So he was never a civilian" Clint says pointedly at Fury.

"I never said I was." Coulson replies. "But I've been out of the field for a while now. I was off the active-duty roster by the time I retired."

"That was years ago" Fury state forwardly. "And I have been trying to convince him to come back to work ever since. Once you're in, you're always in. No one gets out of the game, there's only death."

Coulson frowns. "You know that I can't. I have Isabelle to take care of. It's risky enough that I am her father. I will not allow her to go through all that stress. I will not let her carry that burden around with her. She deserved batter, Marcus. She cannot wake up every day question whether or not I'll come back home in a car or in a body bag. I'm living the dream. I got out."

"You got out of shit, Cheese. You jumped out of one boat and straight into another when you married your wife." Fury rebuffs.

"We've been through this before. I married Audrey because I loved her." Coulson stresses, tethering on the edge of rage. The photo in his was wrinkled beyond recognition. His fist was clenched so tight it might rip straight through the photo-paper in his white-knuckled grip.

"BULL.SHIT." Fury grits out in a low voice. "Stop deluding yourself, Coulson. You may have been childhood friends but we both know that she was as much your ticket out as she was yours. It's time that you get over your guilt. You married her. You even made a child together. You fulfilled the woman's dying wish. Now it's time for you to think about your own happiness. Because this is what you get for running away now it's all coming back to bite you in the ass."

"Shut up" Coulson snaps. "Shut _the fuck_ up you goddamn poser. You never nor cared for anything about her. What makes you think you have any right to talk about my wife that way? This is my mess, my mistake, my problem. I never asked for you help, you came to me, I didn't ask you to. So stop your condescending asshole crap with me and let's get back to business before I change my mind. If it wasn't for my daughter, I would not even considered accepting whatever the hell it is that you offered because that's the thing with you, right Marcus? There's always a price."  

Clint was ready to a bull-fight to erupt in the middle of his nondescript little steak house in the far regions of Minnesota. What he did not expect was Fury throwing back his head and laughing.

"You haven't changed a bit, Cheese." Fury says "Still getting because you know I'm right."

"And you're still the same asshole, Marcus." Coulson replies. The outburst appears to have calmed him and he was now back to the calm facade from earlier this evening. "Shall we get down to proper business now? I have my daughter waiting in the hotel room and this was only supposed to be dinner."

"Daisy thinks the two of you are fucking. So a nightcap shouldn't be a surprise." Fury says. Clint sputters his water. Which makes Fury give him a curious look. "Are you?"

"No" Coulson responds flatly. "The file, Nick. I assume you brought more than one. You could have sent that photo over through an encrypted email. Because meet-ups aren't really your thing. Besides, aren't you a little too important for milk runs?"

"This mission is off-record. I couldn't exactly send in another asset and one I had on the field is already with you twenty-four-seven."  Fury smirks. "Haven't you heard that Minnesota is nice this time of the year?"

Coulson groans. "Just hand over the file." He says and Fury slides another, thicker, file across the table.

The main person of interest is Richard "Ricky" Sorensen, a former Marine with ties to the Italian-American Mafia. He graduated sixth in his class during basic training with notation for insubordination and disregarding authority. In his career, there were several cases of him abusing his authority as a commanding officer. He was dishonourably discharged without remunerations and separation pay when the court martial found him guilty of leaking top secret intelligence concerning the military artillery to the black market whisperers. After he went rogue, he's been affiliated with numerous high-profile arms dealers inside and outside of the states.

"But what does this guy have to do with you, sir?" Clint asks, pondering the thought as he takes another hefty bite of his steak. He could not help it; it was, possibly, the best piece of steak that he has ever tasted. It was juicy, tender, and taste so good that his mouth was having little orgasms with every forkful of meat that miraculously melts in his tongue. And the sauce, he will remember the dark brown coloured sauce with a name he cannot pronounce until the day he dies.

"That's what we have to find out." Coulson says.

"It's now part of your mission to figure out the link between Sorensen and Coulson" Fury tells him.

"Geez, sir, way to make it easy." Clint grumbles into his food. Suddenly the steak wasn't as flavourful as it was two-minutes ago. "You need to give me a raise when this is over." he jokes. "It's like running a five-man operation with little ol' me by myself."

"You will have to make do with what you have, Agent." Fury orders. "You have your back against a hard place. It's not a position you haven't been in before. Keep Coulson alive and we can talk about not sending you to Africa when you get back." Africa was way better than Antarctica, a lot warmer too. That means something because it's Fury.  At least Fury wasn't threatening to fire him anymore.

They finish dinner and part ways. Fury, as Fury does, leaves via the backdoor, kitchen-route, exit and disappears into the dead of the night because dramatics was always his thing. This time of the night, no cabbie ventures this far out of the city. Coulson resorts to calling for a town car. They decide to wait for the bar and nurse a drink of two.

"Tell me something" Clint says, feeling extraordinarily bold given tonight's developments. He had an odd sort of feeling looking at Coulson now. It feel like he was facing a completely different man, like he was looking at Coulson and seeing him, really seeing him, for the very first time. There was less secrets, less mystery, but it did not make the man any less intriguing to Clint. On the contrary, he strived to know more about Coulson's unexpected history in the Army, with Audrey, at SHIELD.

The man acknowledges him with his eyes but does not move from his position, bent over the bar, one leg cross over the other as he leans his full weight on the wood. "Go ahead, Agent. I supposed you might as well before we head back to the hotel." he agrees with a nod. He was nursing a tall pint of dark beer, hand-crafted in a small Minessotan microbrewery and hummed around the taste.

"Did you know?" Clint asks but the question sounds weird coming from his lips. "Did you know about the circus? Or were you genuinely surprised when you found out?"

"The archery, I suspected. The calluses on your hands. It looks like various weapons stretched over a long-span of time, some thicker the others." Coulson thinks it over. "And your arms. You do know that your top-side heavy, right? Army training tries to keep soldier more fairly proportionate. But, no, I didn't think... I didn't expect you to be, well, Hawkeye. Was this before or after your stint in the army?"

Clint shrugs. "It was before. I got out of the circus when the title 'youngest marksman' no longer applied. I joined the army shortly after. And, well, you know the rest of that story."

"I do." Coulson nodded.

He breaths heavily through his nose and lets out a loud sigh. "I thought you knew. I mean you must have. You must have known. Why else... why else would you want to watch some crummy side-show circus like Carson's if you didn't know. It doesn't make sense. Tell me sir, how does this make any sense?"

"Truth, Barton?" Coulson repeats with the same sad look in his face. He contemplates by drinking half of his dark malt. He lets the pint down roughly. "I watched your show with some of the other kids from my school. We just finished our midterm exams and went out to celebrate. A circus had ridden into town the day before. Their acts were mediocre at best but it was nice. Better than watching some crappy firlm with no story in the cinema. Their front liner was an old archer and his apprentice. This jogging your memory?"  

Clint frowned and shook his head. "I performed through hundreds and hundreds of shows, sir. I can't remember a single performance unless I monumentally screwed up in some way. The part of my life is a blur to me."

"I wasn't a large kid. When I got out of the tent, some bullies began taunting me for the rest of my pocket money. Two guys were holding my arms and the last kid took my wallet. I forgot what happened next. The next thing I remembered is that my wallet was skewered to the ground and the same blond kid telling them to piss off." Coulson stopped the story and turned to Clint. He waited for the other man to remember that day, that event in the recess of his memories.

"You didn't know it was me." Clint says, understanding washing over him. It was a phrase but it sounded like a question. In his right hand, he gripped his own pint. He remembered that day. He remembered that scrawny kid. He thought he must have been as old as Clint, if not younger. But he was wrong, the boy from that time was Coulson, who was at least four years older than him.

Coulson shook his head and took another gulp of his beer before speaking. "No, but I hoped. The kid looked so much younger than me that it was pathetic. Seeing you reminded me of him but when you told me your age, I thought that my memory must have been playing tricks on me. Seeing you reminded me of the kid---of you." He adjusted his pose, leaning slightly into Clint's space.

Clint blinks in confusion, his eyes wide and his eyebrows pressed together in the centre of his forehead. "So you really didn't know. I thought Fury wouldn't have told you. I mean Hawkeyes isn't a common code name but I never changed it. He must have known that I was once from the circus. He said so as must when he recruited me."

"Fury doesn't even know." Coulson says, shifting where he stood. "This was long before I ever joined the rangers. It's a memory that I had almost forgotten to be honest. Seeing you in my house with your ratty little hoodie reminded me of it." He leans even closer until his mouth is right next to Clint's ear as if he was whispering a secret. "You wore purple back in your circus days too, didn't you? It's what made you more familiar."

Clint visibly experience a full-body shudder at the contact because, accident or not, Coulson's lips brushed the outer part of his ear when the older man spoke. "So was it true?" He couldn't stop himself from asking. It was a stupid mistake to turn but he did and he got the full effect of Coulson's hazy eyes looking right at him. "One of the last things you told Skye before we left the theatre when she asked about my GED, after the daddy-long-legs story. Was any of it true?"

Coulson regards Clint with a serious expression. One of Coulson's hands come up to brush the side of Clint's face, holding him there like an anchor. "Listen to me." he says. "I may have lied _for_ you but trust me when I say that I have never lied _to_ you... At least about things that matter. I have clear lines and I've never stepped beyond them."

Clint's breath hitches at the confession. Coulson's face was close to his, dangerously close to his. It is unlike the times before now. This, somehow, feels raw. He feels like he knows Coulson now, understands the man behind the facade a little better. He thinks, maybe, the attraction he feels is not entirely one-sided. He's gotten a glimpse of the man's past. He hopes that he's gotten to see a little bit of Coulson's heart as well. He opens his mouth, dying to ask his next question, but before he can the barkeep clears his throat.

"Your town car has arrived, gentlemen." And just like that the magic was broken. Coulson pulls away, noticeably pulling himself together with conscious effort. He pulls out a twenty from his wallet and lays it on the bar. He pushes himself off the bar, gaze still glazed, as he walks over to Clint and reaches for his jacket.

"Come on, it's late." Coulson says. Clint can smell the strange mix of aftershave, of smoke, and of alcohol on him. It's coupled with the smell of Coulson's sweat and the detergent on his clothes. Overall, he find the scent appealing. He wants to bury his nose in Coulson's neck and breath in. The attraction that he's felt since the day morning after accidentally sleeping in Coulson's room had grown into something more intense. Professionalism was the only thing stopping him.

The ride home is tense. None of them speak a word to each other and silently regard the town car driver. Clint is vibrating with nervous energy when they reach the hotel. Their room is quiet when they arrive, both Skye and Isabelle clearly having gone to bed for the night. The fireplace is still lit and Clint is too buzzed to go to bed. Apparently so was Coulson because he lingered in the living area instead of going straight to bed.

Clint has questions, so many questions, that he needed to be answered. This _thing_ between them. There was a thing between them--a pull, a trance, something without a name but it was something. He feels it through every cell in his body. But he just didn't know where to all start. Where did curiosity end and infatuation begin? He replayed the conversations during dinner and remembered something that Fury pointed out.  

"The story about your wife, there's something more, isn't there?" Clint says, slow and even, in a voice so quiet but loud enough to break the silence. He is standing across the room, still in wearing the winter coat which Coulson had given him before leaving New York. There is nothing accusing in his tone. Rather, it's puzzlement. "Do you still love her?"

"Yes" Coulson admits. He wears an expression that was unreadable. The older man is seated on the couch, elbows resting on his parted knees. His fingers and waved together so tight that the knuckles are turning white. His entire body and posture are rigid. He stares at spot on the floor; his half-lidded eyes are downcast."I loved her, perhaps I always will but not in the way you think."

"Fury said something about you being her ticket out." Clint says and his surprised by how raspy his voice sounds. It catches Coulson's attention anyway and he looks up.

"I was" Coulson confesses. "and she was mine. She was engaged, you see, to a horrible, horrible man. He was stuck-up, arrogant, and mean. He didn't love her. He loved her money. Whenever he looked at her, he would only see dollar signs. Marrying him would have made her miserable. But her father chose him anyway because he was his protégé."

"And she couldn't say no because she was sick..."

He nods. "After the treatments when she got better with stem-cells, she wanted to break it off but her father wouldn't let her. I was deployed in Iraq but it wasn't for the army. I can't even tell you because those files have been redacted from the servers. It was a bad mission. She asked for my help and I wanted a reason to leave. It was perfect. We got married behind her father's back and the rest is history. I loved Audrey are a very close friend, almost like a sister. But it was never really romantic between us."

"Then this might not be a bad idea" Clint declares as he closes the gap between them in three long strides, knees folding instinctively beneath him as he goes down gracefully in-between the man's legs. He holds Coulson's clammy hands in his sweat palms, running a hand over the knuckles. He looks up, staring at the older man's jaw line from the underside. Because maybe he's intoxicated but so is the other man. He leans up, lips brushing against the day-old stubble.

"It is" Coulson confirms, moving away. "It's a bad idea. You are interested in the mystery not me. You're intrigued by the idea of me. You think I am puzzle that you can solve--conquest. But you don't like _me_."

"Aren't you the same?" Clint counters. "Now that you know who _I am_ , will you tell me honestly that you aren't the least bit curious about my past? Be real, Coulson. You remembered one incident from years, and years ago, I bet you even remember it in perfect detail or else you wouldn't be this shaken up with the discovery. You were interested in the boy who saved you that day." he says with a grin. "A boy that happens to be me. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're right" Coulson agrees. "But it was a small incident years ago. Everything is different now. Things aren't that simple."

"You still haven't told me I'm wrong." Clint grins because there's hope. Just a tiny flicker of hope and he will milk it for all its worth. "It's not just me, is it?"

Coulson shakes his head, looking glassy-eyed.

"She shouldn't be your last." Clint decides. "Does this bother you?" he runs his fingers over Coulson's knuckles a second time, pressing his thumbs until the tension eased out of the older man's clenched fists. Coulson turns his head from side to side once more. He's blatantly staring at Clint now.  

"This is a bad idea, Barton." he chastised but there is no force behind it. He holds onto Clint's gaze.

Clint gives him a large shit-eating grin. "I am the King of Bad Ideas." He declares with full bravado. He stands up, tugging the other man along with him. They silently make navigate through the maze of furniture and make a beeline for their bedroom. Clint hesitated when they finally arrived at the door. He reached out for the handle but drew his hand back.

"Second thoughts?" Coulson asks from behind him. The older man is so close that his breath puffs against the hair on the back of Clint's neck when he spoke. "You don't have to do this. I'm good. I like having you around even without all the jumbled-up feelings that come with it. We don't have to cross the line. Nothing has to change."

"Maybe" Clint confesses but shakes his head. His own honestly surprises him. His entire body is wound tight like a bow-string. He can feel his skin jittering over his muscles. He's hyperaware of the man behind him, how Coulson smells, how he breathes, how he _feels_.A wave of desire rushes over him. He finds new found confidence in himself as he speaks again. "Maybe it's time that you stop being lonely, sir."

"Don't use my words against me." Coulson steps up behind him, moving closer until he's but a hairbreadth away. He makes a very audible sound as he inhales, nose firmly planted on the back of Clint's neck. It should not be as erotic as it feel, but a surge of lust goes straight to Clint's pants. He stays there breathing until one of his shaky hands move to grip the side of Clint's hip and squeezes.

Clint grabs Coulson's hand, wrapping it more firmly around his midsection. "Second thoughts?"

Coulson's breath hitches and the arms he has wrapped around Clint tightens. Immediately Clint's hand grips over his forearm, keeping him in place. The touch is grounding. For a moment Clint is afraid, afraid that he read it all wrong, that it was all going to fire back at him, and most of all, that Coulson didn't want him. He's afraid that Coulson will pull back, apologize, and ask him to forget everything that happened like it was nothing. Just the thought of rejection crushes him because what would a man like Coulson want with an ex-carnie like him, right?

But then, Coulson surprises him again. The man moves closer, bringing their bodies flush together.

"I haven't done this with a man." Coulson confesses, face buried on the side of Clint's neck. He drops a kiss just below Clint's ear. His nose was cold and it runs up and down Clint's outer earlobe. Another arm comes to wrap around Clint's torso, moving across the thick fabric but Clint can feel the heat of Coulson's palms running across his skin. "But you feel so right."

Clint doesn't stop a moan, moving his head to let Coulson better access of his neck. "Sir" he moans quietly.

"Phil" Coulson---Phil says, licking a stripe up the column of Clint's offered flesh. "If we're doing this, you should really call me Phil." And Clint can hear the smile in Coulson's words as he arches into the older man's touch.

"Phil" Clint says, testing the name on his lips. "Phil" Phil hums, sounding please with him.

"We should really" Phil licks into the crevice of Clint's ear and Clint's hands grip into his forearms. "really" he takes the outer lobe and chews lightly until Clint is arching off him. But Phil doesn't stop his assaults. He goes for Clint's jugular, sucking a bruise onto the skin where he knows will be visible no matter what suit Clint will be wearing. It's too high but at the moment, all his propriety has left him, he doesn't care.

"get inside." he whispers, dragging one hand over the waistband of Clint's pants. Then he reaches beyond Clint's frame, one of Clint's hand immediately follows. They touch the know together, Phil's over Clint's, holding the round bronze metal. It's cool to the touch and Phil's hand is warm against his. Clint takes a moment to appreciate how their hands look side by side. They turn the knob together and step into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready to kill me now? (hides) I am undecided whether or not I should keep the current rating of the story.
> 
> This chapter was so hard to write. I didn't know where to start it with the reveal on Clint's past or Coulson's. I felt like it was time that _something_ gives because otherwise, they'll be both stuck in limbo for too long and it gets boring. 
> 
> Isabelle and Skye were only cameos. I thought they had too much air-time from the previous chapters already. It's high-time that the rest of the plot gets moving. This isn't a rom-com. Time for some action, baby, yeah! 
> 
> Up next: see how Clint challenges Coulson's preconceived notion of his orientation, more about Coulson's past and the threat against him, and hopefully some more action *winkwink* 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who has been following and supporting this story. I hope you enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to Nonnica, sauciemel, and twangcat, who have been heedlessly following this story since the very beginning (even if it nearly took me a whole year to finish). You three are ah-muuuh-zing!

Clint is slammed against the door of their shared bedroom before he can utter a single word. He may have initiated this 'very stupid idea' but, right here, right now, he is overwhelmed by Phil's entire body blanketing him. They're pressed together, knees to chest. Like this, Clint can _feel_ the rippling muscles underneath of Phil's immaculate suits---the firm strength that he's been fantasizing about for _days_.

"Oh god" he breathes out, both hands behind his back, clawing grooves onto the wood.

"Phil" Phil corrects, half-growling. "I want to hear you say my name" the older man raggedly moans beside his ear. "Say it, Clint" he demands, licking a hot wet stripe up the column of Clint's neck.

The blond swallows hard, lifting his chin to give Phil better access. "Ph--Phil." he says, ears reddening in embarrassment, suddenly feeling shy about saying _name_. It should not be erotic; Phil is such a regular name. Yet still, it makes lust surge through Clint's veins like a waterfall.

"Phil---oh god, _Phil_ " he says again louder, bolder--and it's like the floodgates have opened.  Ha arches onto the touch, bowing his back away from the wood because he wants to feel more. He needs to feel more of Phil's hidden muscles against his body--anywhere and everywhere that he possibly can. "Fuck, Phil, Phil, Phil."

Phil laughs against his throat. "I figures you'd be a mouthy brat in bed." he says in a manner-of-fact tone like he wasn't dry humping Clint's leg with careless abandon or was not pinning a 230lb ex-carnie assassin with the press of his body alone. He wasn't even trying. He was just nipping his way leisurely up and down the strong lines of Clint's throat then mouthing at his adam's apple with his tongue.

Yet, he robbed Clint of any and all semblance of coherent thought. He was the only thing that mattered, and his lips, and his tongue, and his hands palming the side of Clint's hips over three layers of fabric. But it was hot---

"It's so hot" Clint moans into the darkness.

All Clint can do is wrap his arms around the man's shoulders and kiss back. Both of his hands fist the thick material of Phil's winter jacket. He holds on so tight that he knows---how could he now know--he's crinkling the tough material. The kiss is filthy and ravenous, the taste of sangria on Phil's lips and the red-wine steak sauce reduction inside his mouth. It was all teeth and tongue, licking into every crevice of his mouth like Phil was hell bent on sucking out his soul.

Their moans echoed through the space making it impossible to tell one from the other. Phil's frame is a solid weight against him, bound so close that Clint doesn't know where his own body ends and the other's body begins. Clint can no longer tell which one of them is trembling  but the vibrations run up his body causing him to lose all conscious thought.

What's left is Phil's lips sliding against his, the feverish heat between them, and the sweat rolling off their bodies. It's like an inferno has erupted and it engulfs both of them.

"This shouldn't be hot." Phil gasps as he latches onto Clint's neck--again. The blond whimpers at the contact. With his mouth free, Clint begins mouthing off like there's no tomorrow.

"Y-yeah" he says at first. It starts off as an affirmation and ends as something else. "Yeah, uh, _yeah_ " he moans wantonly, arching his back and baring his neck. It's a blatant offering and Phil takes to it with gusto. He sucks onto Clint's neck like it was his last meal, scraping his teeth over Clint's apple and licking his way up the column of Clint's neck.

"Jesus, _fuck_ , you have a thing for my neck, don't you?" But Phil doesn't respond. Instead, the older man concentrated on sucking a large, purple bruise near the collar. "Argh. FUCK. Phil are you trying to kill me."

"Believe me, agent. If I was---" Phil laps at the bruise he made before ripping-- _ripping_ the collar of Clint's collar off with just his teeth. The button goes flying into the shadows, making a high-pitched noise before disappearing completely. "--trying to kill you. You would most certainly be aware of it."

How is this man so _freaking_ hot? Clint's brain demands but he can only whimpered in response.

Clothes eventually get into the way. Clint's mind, too addled with the sensations which Phil was giving him, lost all sense of coordination. His hands snake up between them and his fingers tug at his tie to no avail. All he manages to do is grapple his collar to present more of his chest.

"It's hot" he complains, still pulling at the knot that doesn't even budge between his sweaty finger.  "T-t-tie" he only manages to scramble out in-between puffs of breath. He's regressed to a small whimpering child who cannot even untie his own tie, his nimble fingers uncoordinated as trembles caress his entire body. "Phil, _please_ "

"Let me" Phil responds then he does something completely unexpected. He pauses his assault on Clint's neck. He bites down on the knot constricting Clint's airway and _tugs_ a few times until it gives way. He doesn't stop there. He pulls it off the base of Clint's neck entirely with just his teeth. And the archer does a whole body shiver underneath him.

"That's _hot_ " Clint repeats with an entirely different meaning. "That's _hot_." He says for  second time before hauling up the older man and pressing their lips back together. "Tell me I'm not the only one who finds this hot." He tells him, half-begging, completely fluffy and stupid.

The other man complies, kissing the two corners of his mouth before obliging him in a kiss. Clint finds himself laughing as he melts into it. His hands stay on the back of Phil's neck, keeping them together.

"Maybe a little hot" Phil admits against his mouth. He struggles against Clint's steel grip as he tried to work the jacket off the blonds' shoulder. The other is relentlessly holding onto him. "Let go" he commands. "I want this off you."

"O-okay" Clint replies. He sags to the floor, arms above his head while Phil pulls the confining first confining layer off him. Then Phil dives with him to the floor, crawling between his knees, while he works Clint's mouth open for him.

This kiss is softer, almost tender, with so much emotion that Clint cannot explain why tears begin to form in his eyes. When he blinks, a tear slides down the side of his face.

"Barton" Phil whispers. "Clint"

"S-s-Phil" Clint says back. He openly stares at the man in front of him. Phil's lips are wet and swollen, breath uneven, and his cheeks are tainted pink. A single thin line of saliva connects their mouths together.

"That's good" Phil praises him, brushing a soothing hand over his face. "Say my name again."

"Phil" Clint repeats for what feels like an eternity. It sounds so intimate now. He can feel it. He brushes his knuckles over the hand caressing his face and smiles. "Phil" he repeats. "Phil Coulson"

Phil smiles back at him. "Clint, Clint Barton" he says the name over and over again like a prayer. Clint's ever heard his name being said like that---like he is something precious.

"Phil" Clint stares straight into Phil's cerulean blue eyes because even in the dark they shine like gems. He reaching out to touch both sides of Phil's face, as fondly as Phil did. "Does this bother you?" he whispers, repeating his earlier question. He searches Phil's eyes.

Phil covers Clints hands with his owns. He turns his face from one side and then to the other, kissing the centre of Clint's palm both times. It's tender and soft but no less passionate than before. "No" He replies with utmost seriousness in his voice. "Should it?"

Clint closes his hands into fists until only the edge of his thumbs are gently touching Phil's jaw. "No" he replies, smiling. "Just who are you, Phil Coulson, that you've surprised me every step of the way."

Phil's face stays as soft but there's something that flickers in his eyes. It doesn't do unnoticed by Clint's impeccable eyesight.

"No, don't" Clint grits out, tightening his hold on Phil's face. He doesn't give the man room to break away. "You don't get to say you want out. Or that this is a _mistake_. No don't do that to me." then his voice cracks. " _Please_ , don't do that to me."

He closes his eyes tightly. He waits. He's ready to be turned down. At any moment now, Phil will let go and push him away. Then he'll have to pack-up his sorry ass and go sleep in the living room. Shit. He just screwed this entire mission up because of his stupid libido. Damnit. He's----

"--beautiful" Phil's voice breaks his thought. His eyes fly open.

"What?"

"I said" Phil repeat, the gentleness of his smile is back. "You beautiful. You're too beautiful for someone like me. Clint..." he trails off. "I've done many things that I'm not proud of. Things that I regret. Things that will haunt my every waking moment until the day I die. I never said that I was a good man. I---"

Clint kisses his silent. It's long, desirous, and hopeful. He wants to says things. He wants to explain. But he's never been good with words. He clings to Phil's mouth like a lifeline, anchoring himself onto the other man. He licks his way into Phil's mouth, trying to memorize as much of Phil's lips and his mouth and his tongue ingrained into his brain. If only just this once then he wants to remember everything---everything that he can see or hear or taste or touch or _feel_.

"Phil I..." but he can't finish his sentence. It's too much.

\---somehow, Phil understands.

"I've never done it with a man." Phil says. His voice sounding between ashamed and excited. It makes Clint's gut twist uncomfortably. "I don't know what to do" he confesses. "But I want you so, _so_ much."

"Do you trust me?" he asks Phil as they tangle together in a mess of limbs, sliding down against the wall. The other man nods into his shoulder. "Trust me" he gently pushes Phil off him and stumbles onto his feet, his legs feel like jelly and he wobbles for a second.

"Come here" he offers his hand to Phil, grinning like an idiot in love. "Let's go use that really awesome bed over there."

***

The sun hadn't risen.

Clint wakes up achy, not the achy after a good mission achy but achy associated with really good sex---he hasn't been this achy in months. Sex with Coulson--Phil, he corrected--was surprisingly--amazing. It hadn't expected it when he first met the man a few days ago. Underneath those suit, Phil is seriously still packing some muscles. There was a whole map of scars marring his skin, scars which Clint wanted to---

"I can here you thinking" Phil's voice cuts through his reverie. He turns around, propping his head up on his arm with a lazy morning smile. He reaches out for Phil's hand and drapes it over his stomach where a jagged scar from a stabbing is discoloured. He presses Clint's fingers to his skin, encouraging.

"You can touch." he sounds amused. "Did you know that you were saying half of those things aloud?"

Clint is still dazed that he can do this---that he can touch. He lets his hands roam the panes of Phil's stomach, up Phil's chest, and sprawling over Phil's shoulders. The man shudders beneath his touch and goose bumps rise under his fingers. He likes the glassy-eyed expression that Phil makes under his ministrations.

He likes _Phil_. Phil who is stretched out beside him, naked muscle and skin peaking out of the duvet. Phil who can smile completely blankly or light up the room when he gets crow's feet on the sides of his eyes. Phil who had the appearance of a plain old suit-man but is secretly a retired extremely dangerous superspy. Phil who blushes when Clint touches him but was able to make Clint's brain into soup last night.

Phil is smiling, laughing in soft abortive huffs. He cups the side of Clint face. "You have no brain-to-mouth filter, do you?" he asks in a warm, sleep-rough, manner. Clint's cheeks heat. "Come here, you" he mumbles before pulling Clint in for a lazy kiss, one hand on the back of the younger man's head. Clint parts his lips and welcomes Phil into his mouth.

He could get use to this, get used to Phil's hand cupping his---

"DADDY!" Isabelle Coulson's voice echoes just beyond the door, sounding like a fire alarm. "DADDY! WE'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS!!!" she yells, getting closer. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

"Shit" Phil says.

"Fuck" Clint says.

Phils gives him a glare. "Not in front of Izzy" and it was cheeky. "Clothes" he barks out the word. They simultaneous roll to the floor on opposite sides. Clint makes a beeline for his pants but they were soiled.

"Aww, pants, no" he flicks it over the ensuite bathroom, and does the same of the shameful remains of his soiled clothing. Nothing is clean; it either has cum-stains, lube-stains, or a mixture of both stains. He frowned. This was going to be embarrassing very fast if he can't figure out what to do. He looks, and _feels_ , every bit like last night's lay because he was last night's lay. "Shit."

He glances up to see Phil with a disapproving expression on his own clothes.

"SitRep" Phil inquires blandly but his cheeks were an entirely different story. It's absolutely adorable.

"Zero for zero, sir. All my shit's got gunk." Clint mentally applauds himself for sounding steady. "Plan, sir? We've about to be discovered."

Phil nods. "It's good that your cover has already pre-established that were... intimate. Let's use that. " He grips the side of the duvet and _hauls_ the whole thing off the bed, throwing it over Clint with finesse. "Use that, answer the door. I'll hop in bathroom and turn on the shower. If that's Izzy, Daisy won't be too far behind. Let's hope we can count on her fangirl instincts to put two-and-two together. She's a teacher after all."

"Me, sir?" Clint repeats, confused and stuttering. "Why me?"

Phil gives him a face. "Because she's still my _daughter_. She still has to respect me when she's growing up." he answers light-heartedly as he walks to the door.

Clint pouts at him. "And me...?"

"She already likes you just as you are." Phil replies with a smile. "...and it's a good look on you. If you do good, I'll even let you join me for the shower." he adds before hiding in the bathroom "Good luck, Clint!"

Clint wraps the thick fabric around his hips in the nick of time.

"Erhm, hi?" he greets, feeling the flush down to his chest. A cool breeze enters the room as the door swings open. Isabelle and Skye are on the other side with shocked expression. He assumes that it's not for the same reason."Good morning" he tries to be as casual as casual can be with only a duvet covering him.

"Oh my god, Clint!" Skye squeals. Her hands covering Izzy's eyes with lightning speed. "Did we---were you---where's MC?" she speaks in broken phrases until the noise of the shower registers on her ears. "Ohh! You were already awake. Uhm, uh..." she trails off looking flustered and her cheeks as red as Clint's.

"... We're going to the zoo, later, back in New York when we go back, at nine, uh no, we have to be there at eight, and there no sun yet, but yeah, Izzy wants to go, she's been waiting forever, and uh, I have to proctor? oversee? ... uh be a teacher for, uh, yeah, them kid.. oh god I'm babbling jibberish, just, uh... get ready soon, k? Bye..." she retreats quickly, tugging a whimpering Izzy along with her.

She leave Clint flabbergasted, and half-naked, in the middle of the bedroom.

"I have never seen her that... crazy in a while." Phil quips up, peaking from the bathroom. He's already slightly damp, hair sticking in places and water dripping off his frame. "She normally takes things in stride so easily."

Clint throws his head back and laughs. He throws Phil a smirk. "Got space there for a super hot ex-carnie, eh, boss?"

Phil catches his grin and smirks back, pushing off the door frame. "I can be persuaded."

***

 They stride out of the bedroom half an hour later, dressed but still dripping with shower water. Clint cannot help the furious blush that stain his cheeks  when he sees their companions and he ducks his head instead of meeting Skye's knowing eyes.

"Good morning" she greets them, more chipper than usual.

"Mornin'" Clint mumbles half-heartedly. He crosses the living room stiffly and makes his way to the dining room. He's still red by the time he sits down at the table.

"Good morning" Phil nonchalantly greets back. He's already dressed for the office in a three-piece ensemble composed of a dark charcoal suit, a plaid grey waistcoat, and a pale white shirt with thin blue pinstripes. He's wearing midnight blue tie with small silver polka-dots. He looks very, very nice, and Clint doesn't realize he's staring until Phil has a blush to meet his. "Clint."

"S--sir" Clint barks out and straightens. Jesus, he's a super secret spy guy but he's blushing like a pre-teen who just lost his virginity, shit.

"Good morning, baby" Coulson says, scooping up the little girl in his arms. "Daddy's sorry that he woke up late today and couldn't make you breakfast." He kisses her on the forehead and she sleepily wraps her arms around him.

"It's okay, daddy" She talks into his shoulder. "Skye says that you were still sleeping. You let me sleep in all the time. Skye make pancakes!" she giggles and whispers close "but she can't make the butterfly ones like Rosa."

Coulson laughs. "Well, you should still be thankful, baby. It's not Skye's job to make you breakfast." he lowers her on the floor and takes a seat beside Clint, closer than he did on previous encounters. But his expression is placid when he starts talking to Daisy. "Any plans after the zoo-trip today?"

Skye takes a moment to place the last stack of pancakes on the table. "No, just the zoo today." She says, making a thoughtful expression. "Including me, there's only two other guardians coming on the trip. It should be fine, MC, Izzy here's looking forward to it." she glances at Izzy "Weren't you, Izzy?"

The girl nods enthusiastically. "Penguins!" she squeals in delight. "Penguins! Gonna see penguins, right Skye?" she asks with a toothy grin.

All three adults laugh around her.

They pack quickly and head downstairs. A town car picks them up at the lobby. It's a non-eventful ride if Clint doesn't count the way the Coulson is pressed-up against his side from shoulder to knees.

***

May greets them on the tarmac in her full pilot's uniform. She eyes Clint attentively when he boards the plane. Clint tries, and fails, give her an off-handed nod. It comes out clumsy and forced, making her quirk and eyebrow. He swears that he saw her mouth twitching on one side.

"Barton" she says in acknowledgement in a tone that's overlaying with intent.

"May" Clint tries again for nonchalant, and still fails.

She smirks. "That good, huh?" she mocks in amusement. Clint cannot hide his flinch. Why did he even thing that she wouldn't notice the difference, no matter how subtle they both pretended to be--she's friends with _Natasha_ for Christ's sake!

Clint resolutely does not skitter up the plane---okay, maybe just a little.

Skye and Isabelle settle into the den/entertainment area of the Bus. They cuddle on the large sofa in front of the flat-screen and watch _Sofia: The First_  on DVD. Isabelle is already in her prep school uniform and Daisy is in a 40-inspired black and white dress. The plane taxis and smoothly leaves the runway. Within minutes, their at cruising altitude.

"Barton" Coulson calls, stepping in the area. "In my office. I'd like to go over my appointments for the rest of the week. Pepper just called and is requesting for another meeting. Can you check my schedule if tomorrow lunch time is good?"

 "Uh.. yeah.. sure thing boss." Clint scuttles off the barstool and rushes to follow. Good. They're good. They're normal. He pulls out the tablet that Coulson gave him and starts tapping away: checking the man's schedule, rearranging a few meetings, and confirming the appointment with Tony for tomorrow at lunch. "Aaaand... you've got an inside table at Le Marcs, twelve o'clock, table for four."

Coulson shoots him a questioning look.

"Hey, free lunch, right?" Clint says, shrugging. "Hey Coulson... this isn't the way to your office."

"Good eyes, agent" Coulson commends, pleasantly occupied with disengaging multiple biometric locks behind a camouflage side-panel. They are on the upper level hallway near Coulson's office. It's the second time that Clint's been here but he swears on his bow that he didn't _see_ that hidden seams.

"That's amazing" Clint breathes, peering closer. It's has a sleek continuous design in the colour of matte silver and a plain black glass touch-screen siding. "That looks like SHIELD-tech" he observes, calling to memory the exact same security system he saw when spying on Fury's office.

"It is" replied Coulson, non-committal. He motions Clint to follow him. Stepping inside is like stepping into a smaller, more compact, version of the SHIELD briefing rooms. It's size can only accommodate five, or six people at maximum. There's a large rectangular table in the middle. Clint's willing to bet this month's salary that it's hotolotech-compatible.

"It's like a nimi-HQ!" Clint comments out loud. "This isn't just a plain-old luxury plain is it...? What was it? ...compensation for your retirement or something?"

"...or something" says Coulson, walking flicking a switch and firing up the room. The equipment begin buzzing into life, flickering on and proceeding with start-up protocols. Coulson stands near the table, tapping impatiently at the booting-up system. "It's more like a bribe for me going back." he amends. "I said no but kept the plane anyway."

 Clint is speechless, torn between kissing Coulson stupid or going on his knees to beg Coulson for his cock. It's both unbelievably terrifying and incredibly impressive. It's like those magic thingies from _Harry Potter_ that's larger on the inside or the _TARDIS_!

"Okay, let's do this." Clint declares with full bravado when everything is up and running. He goes tosses a small drive to Coulson and begins with a standard operation briefing like he's done a handful of times. He's a level-seven asset-slash-specialist. He's not a handler but he's had one or two missions when the supervising agent was an idiot and almost go the entire team killed. He busted his ass just to get every friendly out alive.

"Target's name is Ricky Sorensen. Multiple listen aliases. Ties to the Italian-Amrican Mafia. Poison of choice: weapons--anything and everything that can go ka-boom! Clientele: maria, undergound, black market. His mode of acquisition: infiltrate, grab, and go." and the list goes on for a good ten minutes of non-stop talking. Clint's out of saliva by the time he finishes the overview.

"The question is, sir. Why is he a person of interest to you?" He asks. He's leaning over the holo-table on his forearms, back stretched, and perfectly-round ass on display. In front of him are all of SHIELD's virtual documentations about the guy that Fury gave them. Nothing is standing out to him except for a couple of redacted mission files from the USA. He pulls them up.

He doesn't even wait for Coulson to answer. "This were your missions, weren't they? And he was your objective?" He spreads them out with an open palm and points at the redaction---all on the name of the agent-in-charge of operations. "The time frame fits, five to seven years ago. You weren't retired then..." he trails off, counting in his head. "Nor were you the AD. So, my best guess would be... Senior Agent with a handler position and assets on the field."

Coulson nods at all instances. "He was one of my last cases before transitioning fully into AD... " he selects one of the later-dated files and brings it to focus. "My team was tasked to intercept a large shipment of stolen StarkTech weapons on-route. At the time, we didn't know where that drop was going to be. One person from the team was supposed to be sent inside to infiltrate their organization and find out. The first person we sent failed and blew cover. He was killed on the spot and his body thrown into the ocean..."

He shakes his head, clenching his first at the memory. "We needed an _in_. Someone who can get close within the identified time frame. My background from the Rangers made met the perfect fit and age. The rest of the team were just junior agents. The cover didn't diverge much from the truth--ex-ranger gone rogue, similar to Sorensen's background. I used that to our advantage and gain his trust. I climbed his ranks quickly and got the necessary information. We stopped the drop and shutdown his operations here in the city."

"Fuck" the realization dawns on Clint. "He's seen your _face_. He knows who you are!"

"It was my oversight and decision to use my real first name." Coulson admits. "We were pressed for time and there was little to no viable alternative given the time constraint."

"Double fuck" Clint curses. "Coulson... Phil, he _knows_ who you _are_."

"Which explains why he's after _me_ but not _why_ he's after me." Coulson points out. "And why _now_? It's been nearly a decade. I'm a retired SHIELD agent living my life away from all this. All my files in SHIELD are _redacted_. None of the original copies exist except for those on the main server. So that's now how he found me..." he slams his hand on the table hard. "...I thought I left this all behind!"

Coulson is visibly shaking, holding on to the edge of the table until his knuckles were going white.

"Phil..."

The trembles were strong, washing over his entire figure in waves.  

"PHIL!" Clint shouts. "Snap out of it! You've done this before. You've beaten this guy at his own game. You just have do to it again." He yells. "Look, I know that I ain't no BlackWidow or Captain America or nothing but I'm here. I'm here to help you. We've already got and ID on the guy. We can track his movements and figure out which of his merry men he's been in contact with. Know their friend, know who they are... that sorta thing, okay?"

But the man doesn't respond. Clint leans closer, tentatively laying a hand over Coulson's. It's the most he can do since they're on opposite sides of the table. He squeezes firm but not suffocating as he tries to reassure the older man.

"Okay, sir?"

Coulson yanks him forward and crashes their lips together. It only takes Clint half a second to get on with the program. Coulson kisses him desperately---like a man drowning in the middle of the sea and searching for an oasis. He doesn't know how long they lock lips. When they part, the holo-table is in power-saving mode and the monitors are showing screensavers.

"Okay" Coulson breathes out against his lip. Then it's like something inside him shifts. Clint can see the metaphorical gears churning, barriers rising, and dormant senses waking up. Coulson isn't just Mr. Coulson anymore, Clint realizes, standing in front of him is the Agent Phillip J. Coulson, Former SHIELD Assistant Director.

It's a highly inappropriate time to find the man extremely hot. Shit. Remember the competence kink? It's kinda back with vengeance. Coulson face looks the same but something about his aura is different. He _feels_ like he can kill a man with a spoon, the plastic one from McDonalds. That thought is really, really sexy.

Clint closes his eyes and does breathing exercises. He needs to visually think of something disgusting stop from his dick from fully rising. Shit. He thinks of Fury in a pink ballerina tutu and orange leopards---it makes him nauseous in an instant but it works.

"Sir" he stands at attention. The cocky grin is back and so is his swagger. "What do you need me to do?"

Coulson lifts his face away from the tabletop screen. He's braced against the edge, leaning his weight forward in a way that accentuates his forearms. The subtle shift of muscles on his wrist is like a blimp in Clint's radar. He's wearing his glasses, perched on the top of his nose. It would be easy to imagine him in the exact same stance in a briefing room back in SHIELD. Damn, Clint missed his chance to see that.

The man takes of his glasses and tucks it inside his jacket pocket.

"This hub can function as a mobile command centre in case of emergency situation. The servers are all back at home but there's an uplink connection. I need you to start working on the algorithm from here. I want access to eyes and ears of the city before touchdown. I'll patch through the SHIELD servers and draft a short list of his known associates who are still within New York. Got it?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

***

It took Clint the rest of the trip back to finish his task.

They emerged from hiding just after May's announcement of the final landing approach.

"Daddy!" Isabelle immediately screamed when they came into view. She was still nestle on the large white couch with Skype. The closing credits are rolling up on the screen. Coulson takes a seat beside her, at the end of the couch.

"Did you have a good flight, baby?" He asks, gathering the child in his arms to sit on his lap. She giggles playfully into his shoulder and cuddles to his side.

"I wanna be a princess too..." she complains but there's no trace of resentment there. She's simply wishfully thinking. Skye moves away from the father-daughter pair and motions for Clint into the space she just created. Clint blushes but follows her anyway.

"Aren't you already _my_ little princess?" he greets her with a warm smile. He meets Coulson's eyes, wordlessly seeking approval. It's strange because now there's a feeling of intimacy attached to the action. He's very fond of Coulson's little girl and now, this, it's like he's becoming part of the family. He mentally shakes his head; he shouldn't get ahead of himself.

Coulson nods.

Clint brushes his hand over Izzy's hair, garnering her attention. She turns to him. "Hello, princess." he says tenderly. "I missed you this morning. I'm sorry if I was a little distracted."

She peers up to him, slowly at first but then breaks into a smile. "I thought you didn't like me anymore."

Clint's heartbreaks a little over her frowning face. "No, no. Of course not. That will never happen, princess. I'm your knight after all, aren't I?"

She nods. "Will you go with me to the zoo?"

"I..." Clint instinctively check with Coulson for cues. The other man moves his head from side to side. "... erhm... I can't..." she frowns. Clint scrambles his brain for an excuse. "... you wouldn't want your friends to be jealous because your brought your knight with you, right? I don't think the other little girls or boys are as lucky as you because your my special princess. You shouldn't draw to much attention or they might feel bad."

Izzy appears to take his words into consideration. She has a thinking face on. Clint unconsciously holds in his breath as he waits. She finally nods. "Okay. As my knight, I order you to take care of daddy today!" she commands in her adorable five-year-old manner. "You need to protect daddy 'cause he's going to be lonely in the office, okay?"

Clint and Coulson laugh.

"Yes, my princess. You're wish is my command." Clint answers with a cheeky expression. "That's a promise, princess. I'll take care of your daddy. But you need to promise me something, okay?" He leans in, pretending to whisper something top secret in her ear. "You need to promise me that you'll tell me all about the zoo when you come back."

Izzy grins wide. "Pinkie-promise!" she declares, holding out her little finger. Clint links his little finger with hers.

"We're here" Skye announces moments later.

"Daisy" Coulson calls her. "Clint's arranged for Luca to bring Isabelle and you to school for today. Seeing as we're running a bit late. We'll be taking a town car to the manor. I'm deeply sorry for the inconvenience. There were minor inaccuracies with time estimates. But if Luca takes you straight from the terminal, you both will have plenty of time to make it there before eight. It's only..." he checks his watch "...half past six."

Skye lays a hand on Coulson's arm. "Don't worry about it, MC." she says with a cheery-almost-giddy expression. "I haven't seen Isabelle this happy in over a year. It's good to see her smiling again. You too... I'm... I'm glad you've got a reason to be happy again. Clint seems like a pretty good guy. Out of the blue and weird but still... I think he makes you happy too." She puts a hand on his cheek. "You deserve to be happy, MC. My sister would have wanted that for you."

"Thank you, Daisy" Coulson replies. "I'll go see you two to the car."

Clint is waiting at the bottom of the airplane stairs when they arrive. "Hey" he beams with a friendly face. "I've given Luca your instructions and the fastest routes available given the traffic at this hour." he turns to Skye. "It should be about thirty to forty minutes. Your bag will be sent to the manor with your things. You can pick it up after the zoo trip."

"Oh?" Skye voices out, slightly confused. "MC, you're not going to the office?"

Clint's eyes see the moment of hesitation in the man's face. "We..." he starts, moving a fraction of an inch closer into Coulson's space. It's just enough for Skye to notice. "...were going to, erhm, do business, right, Ph---Sir" he slips up on purpose.

Skye grows red. "Right." she laughs it off. "You two have fun with _work_." She opens the door and motions for Izzy to follow. "Come one, Izzy, say bye-bye to your daddy so we can go to the zoo and see some penguins!"

Izzy runs up to Coulson and hugs him for a second around the knees then darts off to Skye. "Penguins!" She squeals, barrelling head-first into the car.

"Isabelle!" Coulson shouts. "Daisy, I expect my daughter back in one piece tonight and your check-in at lunch."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Daisy mocks with a sorry excuse for a salute before sliding in to follow.

"Children, the both of them." Coulson gripes sourly and tugs down his lapels. "Come on, Barton. We've got work to do. I want this fiasco over with and that arsehole in the Fridge."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Clint mimics in jest. He's chuckling by the time he finishes. Coulson merely rolls his eyes.

"God, if I'd known you were a mouthy brat, I wouldn't have slept with you."

Clint strides up beside Coulson, arms crossed. He cocks his head in challenge and raises his eyes brow. "Really, now? That didn't seem like the case when you were grunting my name as you came last night." he says cockily. He knows that Coulson doesn't mean it. His voice didn't sound sincere at all. It actually sounded like he was teasing so Clint was playing along.

"Shut up, Barton."

Clint laughs out loud as they exit the tarmac.

***

Coulson takes him straight to the library when they arrive at the manor.

"You don't have another one of those hidden rooms behind the bookshelf, now, do you, sir?" Clint wonder out loud, looking around the space with amusement. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. But then again, nothing had proven to _be_ ordinary when it comes to Coulson. So Clint isn't hasty on judging.

Coulson turns back to him with a bored expression. Yet, on closer inspection, there's something mischievous in his eyes. "Don't be preposterous, Barton. Hidden rooms behind bookshelves, what are we eight? This isn't Narnia or some clichéd fantasy children's book."

"Okay, okay, no hidden rooms." Clint disappointedly crosses his arms. "So why _exactly_ are we here? I thought you said that you had servers in here. I've swept this place brick by agonizing brick according to the floor plans but there wasn't anything suspicious. Even I can't miss and _entire_ room missing."

There's something in Coulson's face that changes, the corner of the older man's mouth lifting up slightly. "That's because it's not in the floor plans that you were given." he explains casually. "Surely by now, you've realized..." he goes to his desk while talking "...that for men like us..." he places his hand on the table and deliberately says "old habits die hard."

The wood beneath his palm illuminates.

"Holy fucking shit" Clint gasps, eyes widening, even his breath hitches in surprise. "No way, no _fucking_ way. This can't be real. This isn't happening..." he blubbers uncontrollably, neck straining as he looks up. The ceiling slides apart, opening like a shutter, and a round staircase descends silently to the library floor leaving about an inch before touching the faux-fur rug.

"Super-secret-spy-agent spy-base?!" he exclaims.

"The servers are below ground for security purposes. However, for more practical reasons, the terminals are above ground..." Coulson strides over to the stairs and begins his ascend, not bothering to check if Clint is following. "...I have also spend far too long and far too many years of my life in dingy little windowless rooms and the back of too many fake service vans in my time. Do keep up, Barton. I press a button and this thing goes back up."

"Y--yeah" Clint dashes behind him. Everything was in the same minimalistic decor with muted colours and high-functionality. It's like a more aesthetic version of a SHIELD HQ operations rooms. Everything is well-kept, organized in self-contained piles and maintained in tip-top condition. He runs a finger over the surface and not a speck of dust is collected. "This is why Fury wants you back so bad."

"Because of my superior cleaning skills?" Coulson throws over his shoulder. He goes through the motions of rebooting the computers like in the Bus. The room itself isn't that big. It had space enough to fit three or four people because of all the equipment which share the area. There's a holo-table at the centre, several large monitors hanging on the back walls, and a singular computer terminal.

"Hand me the drive from the Bus" Coulson tells him. Clint digs inside his pocket and throws the USB to him. It's caught in a one-handed grab in mid-air. "Thanks" he says, whipping around and plugging it into the computer. "Here, catch" he grabs a tablet off the table and tosses it behind him without looking.

"Shit!" Clint curses and stretches just enough to catch it. "Dude, you can't go throwing shit at people without looking!" he complains, hugging the device against his chest. "They might not be able to catch it! Not all of them are as awesome as me, you know."

Coulson cocks an eyebrow over his shoulder. "As if you wouldn't catch it, _Hawkeye_."

Clint freezes. His alias sounds so different in Phil's lips. It makes him blush.

"I... ehrm..." The holo-table comes to life and saves him from further humiliation. He releases an uneasy breath and glances down at the tablet in hand. He exhales deeply, flushing out all non-professional awkwardness so he can get to work. There is no way that he'll let Sorensen get anywhere near Phil Coulson, not if he's alive to do anything about it.

"Okay... here we go." He flips open the tablet and throws several files onto the table, bringing a plethora of colours dancing in front of his eyes as he works his magic. Ex-carnie or not, there's a thing or two that's his learned with his stint in SHIELD and being tech-savvy is, thankfully, one of them.

They get a lot of work done in three hours--compile a list of known acquaintances inside and within with outer bounds of NYC, vital information about said acquaintances, any and all communication to-and-from between the acquaintances and Sorensen. Plus keeping an eye on the man himself. Recent acitvity shoes him hiding out in East Harlem. He's made contact a few times but no one bit or important, just low-level crooks with petty crimes and none of them have any direct link to arms dealing or the black market.

Coulson's been increasingly checking his phone, intermittently.

They work as a flawlessly compatible team. They divide the tasks between them according to ability. Clint learns more and more about the mysterious Agent Coulson that Coulson used to be. He's smart, deadly serious, but never rude. He knows what are well within his boundaries and what isn't. He doesn't push Clint or insult and he's patient with question.

Clint understands now how this man could have climbed all the way to becoming AD but what he doesn't understand is why Coulson left. It's plainly obvious that _this_ is the man's real calling. It's his _groove_. He looks more alive skimming over through line after line of data than he did sitting in offices talking to Tony Stark.

"Stop thinking, Barton" Coulson quips from the other side of the table. "Of if you do, try not to talk out loud, will you?"

"I get that you're good at this stuff, sir." says Clint without looking up from the tablet "But what I don't understand is _why_ you left it all behind. It's clear that you're in your element here. I've never seen you _look_ and _feel_ more alive than you are now. You _live_ for this... I just know it"

Coulson checks his phone again.

"Coulson? Sir?"

"Daisy still hasn't called to check in" Coulson states, voice wavering. He's gripping his phone tightly in his palm. "It's twelve-fifteen" he speaks in weird, unconnected gibberish. "She's never late. That's always been the deal. The check-in was at twelve. She still hasn't called me."

They both pale.

"Clint, I don't think that I've been the target at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh noes, Isabelle! *cries*
> 
> Sorry it took me so long. I got caught up in another fandoms ship-week. It's been a lot of fun. Plus, I experimented with a bit of photo-manips this week to get my brain working again. I pretty indecisive about the (minor) sex scene at the beginning but I think it meshes well with the story all together. 
> 
> This chapter's pretty much geek-speak and their super-secret-spy-agent thaaang going on. I hope you like it.
> 
> UpNext: Loads of badassery from our two favourite guys, enter big-baddie Sorensen, and a secret cameo surprise~
> 
> Thank you for everyone who has been following and supporting this story. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I want to finish this story by Christmas or maybe early Jan.
> 
> (Your kudos are appreciated and your comments are tucked close to my heart which I ready over when I get into a slump.)


	7. Chapter 7

At exactly seventeen past one, Coulson's phone rings. The contact's name reads 'Daisy Johnson' on the caller ID.  Coulson picks it up in a heartbeat, voice calm and level without an hint of emotion in his voice. "You've got exactly one minute to tell me what I need to know," he says without blinking. He presses a key and puts a finger to his lips to keep Clint quiet. Loudspeaker allows for both of them to follow the conversation.

Clint can imagine that voice of steel giving him commands over the commlines and it makes him shiver. It's almost as if he wants the man to come back just to be his handler on the field. With a voice like that, he could easily believe that he will be coming home alive no matter how bad the operation becomes pear-shaped.

"One minute."

There is static and  faint laughter on the other line.

"Phil," the voice says, cracking and static over the line. "You've got it all wrong, is that the way to treat an old friend?"

"Old friends know better than to call me Phil after they've kidnapped my daughter, Ricky," Phil answers, breaking his monotone at the name: instead, he sneers at it. "You've got forty-seven seconds."

Another laugh. "Isn't this the wrong way around? You're supposed to be stalling while I give my longs list of demands. Otherwise, you won't be able to trace the call. Aren't you going to ask about your new wife? It's her phone after all."

Clint sees the way Phil's jaw tightens but none of that tensions bleeds into the other man's voice. "Thirty seconds. Stop wasting my time. One, she's still alive, and two, it's useless if you've already hacked it. Twenty-five, Sorensen."

The person on the other line grumbles but folds. "The Marina Bay. You've got 2 hours, Phil. Or your little girl is going to meet her mommy real soon. And I don't have to remind you not to bring your little government friends into the game. You know that I'm a stickler for rules."

Coulson does not wait for Sorensen. He hangs up the phone before the 'n' fades into static. He throws the piece of premium technology to the nearest wall with a flinch. "Damnit!" He throws the first punch on the console. "Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit! Fuck. I shouldn't have taken those threats lightly. If I knew..." he buries his face into his hands, shaking. "... if I knew, if I had done something, neither of them would be in danger."

"Coulson… no, shit, uhm, Phil?" Clint calls out carefully. It's the first time he's spoken since the missed check-in an hour ago. He's leaning against the opposite side of the holo-table and watches Coulson from the table's reflection. Staring at the  older man directly won’t do any good given his agitated state. So Clint waits it out, waits for Coulson to answer him.

Coulson is breathing hard, hands trembling caused by the grip he has on the table, and looks up. His eye are dark, dark blue, and his gaze sends shockwaves down Clint's spine. Clint has only seen eyes like that a handful of times in his life, eyes that will nearly pierce you through the heart and kill you without breaking eye contact. The hairs on the back of his nape stand up.

They stay like that, at a stalemate, until Clint can no longer handle the tension.

"Breathe," he says evenly. "Coulson, I need you breathe and think. You've outsmarted the guy once before, you can do it again." He gingerly reaches over the table, the edge digging into his stomach, and lays his hands over Coulson's. He's tentative at first but then Coulson's hands rotate, palms facing up, and their fingers entwine. "But now you've got me, sir. I promise that we'll get Izzy and Skye back safely. But you've got to trust me, sir... Do you trust me?"

It takes more than a while for Coulson to reply. But when it does come, there isn't a trace of doubt or uncertainty. Coulson lifts his heads, follows the line from their fingers to Barton's eyes, and say "You better make goddamn good on that promise, agent."

Clint smirks and squeezes their hands. "What do you need me to do, sir?" What he sees, who he sees, is a mixture of the quiet and bland man he met a few days ago and the ruthless ex-assistant director of SHIELD. It's a lethal combination. He can see clearly, without a doubt, what happens to men who've underestimated the man before him. Then Coulson smiles, dark and feral.

"I'd like you to cancel my appointments for the rest of the day."

Clint grinned. "Just a day, sir? Isn't that a bit cocky?"

Coulson stared in down with utmost seriousness. "Are you saying we need more?"

"Sir, no, sir." Clint says confidently. He takes a step back as Coulson stars to bring the holo-table back to life. It's a symphony of colours tangling together, every single bit of data they have, and they were close too. They’ve tracked down the coordinates for Sorensen's hideout with a 2-mile radius based on his gangs' movements since his return. They are surely in East Harlem and the docks mean that he’s near the pier. But it is too easy, even Clint has to acknowledge, too easy for him to just give his position away unless---

"It's a trap, you know," he tells the other man. "You're being set up. It's too easy, sir. It's the second time around. He won't, he shouldn't, be that easy to catch. Otherwise, why would he come back?"

"Yes," Coulson nods without looking at him. His gaze is still fixed on the 3D diagrams between them. "You're not wrong, Barton, it's definitely a trap. I'm sure he's got all his friends rounded up at the drop point when I get there. It'll be an ambush. All of them against one. That's how he works. That's how he operates. He creates a playing field that is skewed in his favour. He stacks the odds against his opponents and forces their back against a corner." He pauses just enough for Clint to meet his eyes.

"You know his game." Clint presses. "If there's a way, Phil, sir, you can a find a way out of it.”

Coulson shakes his head. "Sorensen's biggest fault is his big ego. Izzy and Skye won't be at the Marina. They'll be somewhere else, somewhere far away from the drop point. Even Sorensen won't be stupid enough to bring them along. He's got them hidden away. But until we find him, until we weasel their location out of his dying lips, he's not going to sing. The only way to beat him is to make him think that he's already won. I am going to the drop and I'm going to get captured."

"There must be a way to get them out alive without you playing bait. You can't, sir. You cannot go in without any assurances that you'll get back out. Thank about Izzy. You're all she has left. We can do this. We can think of a way around this!" Clint protests. "She can't lose you too!"

"She won't." Coulson’s voice is firm. "I've got you as back-up, what more could I need?"

***

Coulson, as it turns out, has a small artillery in his storage room, almost like he's been waiting for this exact scenario to happen from the moment he left the agency. Clint has to take that all in, how a man can raise a child with a guillotine forever hanging over their necks.

"Why didn't you change your name, sir?" Clint asks, out of the blue, as they are stocking up on firearms. They’re old tech, less than a year back, and newer ones. Some, Clint identified, is SHIELD issue firearms and a couple of Starktech. "It would have been easy..." he reasons, thinking out loud, "...easy for you to disappear and wipe your slate clean. Isn't that the normal SHIELD retirement package? But why didn't you? Keeping your name meant you'll always be vulnerable to threats like this."

"Because I had family ties that I couldn't burn," Coulson answers. "My recruitment into SHIELD wasn't as clean-cut as rumours in the agency may have made you believe, Barton. I was a ranger first. Then, SHIELD. I couldn't change my name. I had Audrey then I had Isabelle. There was no explaining to my wife that I was hiding the truth from her all this time. That I wasn't a ranger when we were married and that our marriage was based on a lie. That I---"

"I'm sorry," Clint cuts him off his a hand to the shoulder. "It wasn't my place to pry."

Coulson covers Clint's hand with his and shakes his head. "No," he says, then clears his throat, "Not that we're, uhm, involved, I understand that you have a right to be curious. My past is very complicated, Barton, but it's made me who I am today. I also have made mistakes, some of them I don't think I can ever share with anyone else, not Audrey... not even you..." He trails off, searching Clint's eyes for something, a sign, anything, like a plea "...I understand if you'll reconsider your position with me. It won't affect your job, I promise."

"Hey, hey, Phil, hey," Clint soothes. He drops the weapons onto the table and cups Coulson's face in his hands. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures. "I mean, I've been pretty hot for you since the moment I came into your office. Then I find out you're the mysterious AD that's been churning the rumours mills. I won't lie. That was both a surprise and a turn-on but I know the risks of getting into this. You don't get to that position just because you're friends with the higher ups..." He shrugs. "My closet isn't empty of skeletons either, sir."

"I don't care about your ledger, Barton," Coulson says firmly.

Clint nods and pulls his face closer. "Neither do I, sir." He kisses Phil on the nose and lets go. He throws his head back, laughing. "We're going to be a messed up couple, aren't we?"

Coulson takes him by the back of his neck and hauls him in for another kiss. "No," he whispers before locking their lips together. "I think we're going to be great together."

They take a total of forty-five minutes to come up with a plan and get their gear together. Clint thinks it’s forty-five minutes too late given the traffic from the outskirts to Manhattan Island on a Monday morning. They should have left the moment the call ended; now they might not make it to the Marina in time. They're both suited up in custom-made three-piece suits. Clint feels like he should complain and ask for his tactsuit.

"They'll be expecting less of us if we show up as we are," Coulson explains without breaking step.

Clint believes him. "Then we should get going. I suspect you don’t want the NYPD to get involved." He rubs at the back of his head. "It's going to be hard to make the deadline if I don't run a few traffic violations."

"You won't need to," Coulson assures him. They're in the garage, dressed like they are going to the office, but really they are going to war. It might be the greatest war of Coulson's life, and he will spare nothing. He takes the key from the box and throws it over his shoulder, confident in Barton's hand-eye coordination. "Catch, Barton," he says with a grin: it doesn’t hit the concrete. "We're taking Lola for a spin."

"Sir," Clint complains. "I think the yellow Camaro would be more subtle than Lola," he says nervously, even as they make their way to the gorgeous cherry red beauty that sits in the middle of the garage. "I mean, no offense, sir. I thought we're going for discreet, not flashy."

Coulson already made his way to the car, sliding into the driver's seat smoothly, with a smirk on his face. "Get in the car, Barton," he orders lightly, revving up the engine.  It purrs underneath his hands like the well-oiled powerhouse machine it is. He hums under the roar of the engine, running his hand affectionately over the dashboard. "That's my girl," he whispers. "Gonna help me get my baby girl?"

Clint watches the display with amusement.

"Well?" Coulson cocks an eyebrow, one arm over the back of the passenger's seat. "Are you going to stand there and stare? Or are you going to get your ass inside the car so we can both get captured by the bad guys?"

Clint pushes back a retort and jumps in.

"For the record, I think this is a bad idea."

"Barton, didn't you tell me last night that you were the king of bad ideas?"

They zoom past the gates and head off into the city.

"What the f--" Clint suddenly stammers when something mechanical starts to change outside the car. He glances about, head strained over the door to see wings---actual fucking wings-- sprout from the side panels of the car. "What the actual fuck is happening?!" He shouts, barely containing his shock as Lola rises into the air. "Coulson! We're flying! We're actually fucking flying!" He yells with a hand on the dashboard, gripping it for dear life. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Shit. Fuck. Phil!"

Coulson's laughter is the calm before the storm as they zoom across the New York skyline.

***

"Do you trust me, Clint?"

"Yes."

***

"I still think this is a bad idea," Clint whispers as they stand in the middle of an ominous clearing between container units. It's the most cliched kidnapping scenario that Clint's ever experienced in his life. "It's like textbook bad guy from the 1980s. I'm half expecting goons and baddies to come springing out from behind those containers over there," he says, pointing to the neat stack a few yards away from them. "I think they’re around us even as we stand here looking like ducks, sir."

"Could you..." Coulson speaks in a hush. He shrugs. "I don't know..? Pretend to be a little bit scared and confused by your blander than bland CEO boss standing in the middle of a container van dock? We don't know how much intel they have on you. But I'm certain they did research on me and my staff. You are a welcome anomaly."

"Aww, shucks, sir," Clint teases with his natural Waverly accent bleeding into his slur. "I'll take as a compliment. I'm still supposed to be bright enough to pass for a graduate student, right?"

"Yes, Barton," Coulson answers with a sigh. "I trust you won't overdo it. No showboating until we know where they are. Do you hear me? No matter what they do, you need to make them believe that they're winning. It's the only way we can get them both back safely."

"We will," Clint says, gritting his teeth together. "And don't worry, sir. I've had my share of being on the wrong end of interrogation-slash-torture techniques. I'll be good."

"You better," Coulson tell him. "Because the show is about to start."

Clint nods. "Three o’clock, got it." He eyes their three and sees a group of men fast approaching. One of them, he recognizes from the file on Sorensen and the CCTV footage. He's wearing the classic tank top and leather coat ensemble that baddies like him like to wear. It doesn't surprise Clint, not for one bit but he starts his act. "S---s-s-sir?" He asks in a stutter, making sure his face looks like that of a frightened young grad student who wishes he was anywhere but here.

"Don't harm him." Coulson's voice rings out loud and clears, echoing in the small space. "He's just here to pick up the girls. He's harmless."

A laugh slices through the heavy silence.

"You're not fooling us with your boy toy, Coulson." Sorensen's voice cuts through the fog. "There's no reason for you to bring your guard dog all the way to the middle of nowhere if he isn't important."

"He happened to be there when you called. Coincidence." Coulson tries to brush it off but his voice is tense. Sorensen walks right into Coulson's space, nose to nose, as if staring the older man down. Their heights are nearly the same except Sorensen is built a little heavier, wider in the shoulder. His arms are roped with thick muscle where Clint knows Coulson's build is lean and lithe.

"Bull. Shit." Sorensen spits straight on Coulson's shiny leather shoes.

"These are Prada," Coulson announces, making the other man laugh out loud.

"You didn't used to be a pussy when you worked under me, Phil," he sneers in Coulson's face. "Did being a daddy make you soft on the outside too? It's such a pity." He shakes his head in disapproval. "We could have been beautiful together. Your brains and my brawn. We would have conquered the underground just like that," he snaps his fingers. "Such a pity, Phil. Such a pity. You could have come clean to me and I would have forgiven you, Phil. You were always my best man."

"That was all a lie, Ricky." Coulson shots back with a dry tone. "None of that was me. That was a cover to get under your skin and make you reveal all you little secrets." He smirks, the corner of his mouth like the sharp edge of a blade. "And you sung beautifully. Just like a hummingbird."

"Beautiful, me?" He leaned in close, lips a fraction of an inch from Coulson's ear. "You were the beautiful one, Phil," he says before kneeing Coulson right in the gut. The man goes down in a fit of dry-heaves, arms clutching around his stomach. Sorensen doesn't stop. He kicks Coulson on the side, on the stomach, and on the legs, but dutifully avoids the man's face. He sneers. He bends down and grabs Coulson's face in his hands. "Beautiful, Phil. Still so goddamn beautiful."

The scream from Clint's lips isn't entirely an act. He shouts when he sees the first knee land in the middle of Coulson's stomach. Then he keeps shouting and screaming, falling to his ass as he begs the man to stop. He can’t fight back, not yet. He promised Coulson that he wouldn't intervene. He is the backup plan. He is the secret ace that Sorensen and his men do not know about. He has to endure the mental torture of seeing the man he loves---oh fuck.

He loves Coulson. There’s no other explanation for the curl in his gut and the feeling of his heart being ripped apart while he watches the man he loved go down. He screams until his lungs burn. He yells until his throat is raw and painful. He pleads for Sorensen to stop. He begs for Coulson to be saved, to be given mercy. The tears in his eyes sting like teargas.

Then when he couldn't shout or scream or yell, a dull blunt pain on the side of his head makes his vision grow dark.

***

"Barton," a voice calls to him.

He knows this voice. He's heard it before.

"Barton."

He knows the voice who is calling out to him.

"Barton."

There is sound of chains.

The first thing he feels is the strain on his arms, then the lack of ground beneath his legs,  then the sting on the side of his head. He hears the chains clanking not far from his position. Clint tries to blink away the pain but his eyesight is fuzzy and unfocused. He open his mouth. It feels as dry as the Sahara, raw and achy. "Phil?" He chokes out, and hisses because it hurts his throat.

"Barton. Focus on my voice," Coulson tells him. "Come on, Barton, you can do it. Listen to my voice. Focus on it. You have to open your eyes in a little bit, okay? You, stupid idiot, got knocked on the head and you didn't even dodge." There’s- something kind, near affectionate, in his voice. "Barton, come on. You promised that you'll get Isabelle and Daisy home. How will you do that if you're still floating inside your head? Barton. Barton. Can you hear me?"

Clint tries to nod his head and say yes. It comes out as a grunt-moan instead. "I'm here," he says in a low voice. "I'm listening, sir." He tugs on the chains around his arms again but there isn't any give. He gingerly opens his eyes. Their holding room is small, windowless, and made of concrete. He glances up and sees old rusted chains around his wrists, hanging on metal piping. He looks around and sees Coulson in a similar state of restraints. "Hey, sir," he manages weakly.

"SitRep, Barton," comes the level reply from the older man who looks like he was beaten an inch from his life. Clint has to hold in his gasp as he sees the black and blue colour of Coulson's skin and the bruise blossoming on the side of Coulson's neck.

"Give me," He rasps out dryly. "Gimme a few more minutes then I'll be at 100%. I've got numbness on my arms but I think that's from the suspension rather than brain damage. My head’s a bit fuzzy too but I'm awake now so it'll get away go away in a few." He manages a chuckle. "Don't worry, sir. It's not the first time I've been hit on the head."

"You've got five." Coulson answers. "They'll be back for round two."

"Copy that, sir." Clint says. He tugs on his chains again, the low dull of pain shoots up his spine, but there is still no give. "Tell me you've got something since I was out."

"Positive," Coulson confirms. "They haven't moved us far. We were in the van for less than an hour. Utility van, unmarked, parading around as the city telephone department. They covered my eyes with a bag, I heard church bells a few minutes ago. I think we've underground. Not more than two miles from the Marina. Two guards every check in. It's the same drill. They come in, beat me up, but don't ask for the ransom."

"So it's not about the money," Clint finishes for him and sees Coulson shake his head.

"No. It's more than money. It's personal."

Barton scoffs. "Seem real personal too, boss," he says with an eye roll. "Sounded like you and Sorensen were up close and personal back in the day, eh?"

Coulson's face is impassive. "You and I both know the workings of this field, Barton. It's not uncommon for us to use our bodies as part of our arsenal. If it makes you feel any better, I haven't fucked anyone since I married my wife."

"You mean not since last night" Clint shoots back.

"BARTON!" Coulson shouts. "Get your goddamn head in the game. Two lives are at stake aside from ours. We'll talk about my past sexual encounters when we get them back safe and then I promise..." He waits for Clint to look up so that their eyes can meet. "...I promise to tell you everything you want to know. No more secrets."

"You're right." Barton thins his lips but nods. "The mission always comes first." He hears the sound of footsteps outside and quiets down. "Looks like company is here. Do I play dead or is it time for sleeping beauty to wake up?"

"I might need you to distract them a bit," Coulson confesses without hiding his wince. "I'm not sure how long my ribs can hold out longer. It's... been a while since I was out on the field. I haven't exactly had much practice before I retired."

Clint nods his head in understanding. With his eyesight, he can see Coulson's difficulty in holding himself upright with the bindings. The older man is favouring one side, putting strain on his dominant arm. The chains that bind him are slightly shorter than Clint's and take him off the ground a little higher.

"What do you need me to do, sir?"

"Information," Coulson answers. "We need information on where we are, why we’re here, or if they’re keeping Izzy and Skye within the premises.” As he speaks, the footsteps  draw nearer.

"Then start playing dead, sir."

That's all Clint gets to say before the thin metallic door swings open. Two men storm in just like Coulson said. He glances in Coulson's direction; the man's head is bowed down and hanging limp between his shoulder. The goons make a beeline for Coulson's slumped form. He starts making a fuss, groaning loudly and moving against his chains.

"Hey!" One of the goons, tall and ugly, tells him off. "Stop that or you'll break the pipes!" It's not the same set of wanna-be baddies from the docks.

"Who are you? What have you done to my boss?" He goes frantic against the bindings. "Jesus, Coulson!" He shouts like he means it, screaming himself hoarse. "Help!" He yells. "SOMEBODY HELP! PLEASE. OH GOD HELP! HELP! IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? HELP US PLEASE!"

What comes next is a reverse interrogation that should make Natasha proud.

The second guy steps into his space, hand covering his mouth and holding the side of his cheeks. It tastes disgusting on his tongue and he keeps himself from biting down on instinct. Instead, he lets his eyes go wide, pretending to be scared, and he fights against the hand just enough to be a believable hostage. He yells into the open palm. It's muffled and pathetic and he watches it inflate the men's egos.

"You keep quiet or we'll strike your boss again," Baddie #1 says. It stops Clint immediately. There's genuine fear for Coulson in his eyes. He doesn't try to hide it.

"Please," He begs despite the fact that he hates begging. It sounds pathetic even in his own ears. "Please don't hurt him. I---" and his voice shakes because he means it. "I'll do anything just don't hurt him anymore."

Baddie #2 licks his lips. "Santiago was right about you," He says, breath rancid and foul straight up Clint's nose. "Pretty boy Coulson's got a new pretty boy at his side. You look better awake. I like them with fear in their eyes before I take their sweet ass. How about we start with a kiss?"

"Wh--where am I?" He goes for the deer-in-headlights look. He frantically looks around. "The do--docks" he chokes out with a sob. "Oh dear god. I remember that we drove to the docks but this isn't the docks. P---please, let me go."

The guy cups Clint's jaw in his hand. Clint smells gunpowder and traces of ammonia. "Nowhere to run, kid." He sneers. "The boss has got you both on lockdown until we get the next orders. So how about we have a little bit of fun first?"

"Izzy!" He shouts. "What did you do? What did you do to Izzy? Please. Please. She's okay. Tell me she's okay. I can't... you've hurt her. You've hurt her and Skye haven't you?" He sobs some more. He fights the restraints and tries kicking his feet. But the guy clamps his sweaty arms over his legs. "No!" he practically screams. "No, please!"

"Relax," His captor tells him. "Stop your damn kicking or I'll go upstairs and kill them both myself."

"No!" He screams for real this time. "Please don't," He whimpers. "I'll be good. Just please don't hurt her. You can..." he bites his lips in a way that he knows looks enticing. "Please I'll do anything just don't... just don't do anything to hurt her."

Both guys smile. The guy holding his leg starts running a hand up over his thighs. "You've got quite a bit of muscle on you," he jeers. "You fuck your boss too to get this job? Pretty boys like you whoring yourselves out? Why don't you open your legs for me too and I'll consider your offer?"

Clint's stomach lurches at the mere thought. "W--why are you doing this? I don't understand. Money?" he asks, scanning their expressions closely for any kind of tell. "If it's money, Coulson can give it to you. Just money, right? Please." He says, adding a whine to his tone. "I swear he's good on money. Just please, please stop doing this. He'll give you all the money you want."

"Money's not the issue, kid." He sneers, running his finger over Clint's cheek again. "If it's just money. The boss has got that all figured out. Do you know how difficult it is to get your snobby boss' little brat? Why bother when we could've gone for any other rich kid in Manhattan?"

Clint swallow and angles his face away. "Please." He whispers again. "Then let us go. I don't understand." He shifts away, it hurts his arms but he figures the show and the power play is what they're after since not have tried to break any information out of Coulson. "If--if it's not money... then why? Why me? Jesus, all I wanted was a passing grade in OJT." He sobs.

The guy takes pity on him. "You poor, poor thing. Getting caught up in your employer's old love story." He pats Clint on the cheek. "Bet you didn't realize that your boss was an ex-suit, huh?"

"Ex--ex-suit? What do you mean Coulson's an ex-suit?"

"Oh?" He laughs. "Didn't he tell you in your interview? Tsk tsk tsk." He shakes his head. "Coulson here is ex-military like the boss. With a pretty face like that, he used to be the org's number two but he turned on all of us.  He hid the weapons that were supposed to go to the Tataglias. Heard of them, kid?"

"T--tataglias? Isnn't..." He makes a very audible swallow. "Isn't he the Russian Mafia?"

"Russian?" Tall-and-ugly barks out a laugh from where he stands near the dog. "I thought you PHD types for your facts right? Tataglia's Italian not Russian." He mutters 'stupid rich brats' under his breath one more time.

"T--the Italian Mafia!?" Clint gasps theatrically. "He's going after Coulson because of the mafia?! W--why... why didn't he just get more weapons and get the... the mafia off his back?"

"Woah. Pretty boy isn't as stupid as I thought he was." The guy from the door scoffs. "You think boss didn't think of that?" He pushes off the wall and steps closer to Clint. "You have no idea what your boss' business use to be, don't you?" He grabs Clint's face and Clint shakes his head wildly.

"We... we're an energy tech." Clint whimpers.

The guys tsks and shakes his head. "Coulson's company wasn't always in energy, you know? That only happened when Coulson became CEO and he pissed off a lot more people than just the boss." Clint doesn't answer. "Weapons, kid. Fucked up the entire system too. Boss had it all figured out but Coulson screwed him and the entire operation over. He's not a guy to be reckoned with."

"You got yourself caught up in the wrong net, kid." The second guys tells him. "Now hows about that kiss, huh?"

Clint hesitates but sees movement in the corner of his eyes. He smirks. "Damn right, he's not," He says and swings his legs high. He grapples the unprepared Baddie #2 with his thigh and uses the flex of his muscle to initiate a chokehold to cut-off the guy's air supply. Goon #1 goes to help but he's knocked out with a well-placed kick to the neck. Clint groans as the guy scratches his legs in an attempt to get free. "Fuck you," he grits out and twists his hips. There's an audible snap and the guy falls to the fall beside the first one.

"Impressive reverse interrogation, Agent." Coulson praises with a grimace. He worries over his side. It's probably a bruised rib. He smirks at Clint. "I thought you didn't do fieldwork much?"

"You ain't the only one with secrets, sir," Clint replies cockily and shrugs. "Maybe I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." He take in a breath and heaves his entire lower half up, using the restraints like a gymnast would use gymnastic rings. He lifts his body a good three inches from the ground then drops. The pipes groan at the movement. He does it again and again until the pipe holding him up snaps free. Water comes pouring into their cell, drenching them all.

"Oh fuck," he says when he sees the unconscious man on the floor begins to stir. The man immediately goes for the radio and Clint kicks it away. "Not today, asshole," he declares before delivering a fatal kick to the side of the man's head. If he doesn't die from the head trauma, he'll drown before he wakes up.

"Nice kick, Barton" Coulson comments. "Now, can you take care of my chains?"

"Sir, yes, sir," Clint answers with a grin.

"Where did you learn that?" Coulson inquires while he rubs his wrists to encourage the circulation back. There are thin bruises beneath his cuffs where the bindings dug into his skin, pale stripes of red on his pale skin. "Specialists at your level aren't supposed to have that kind of skill. You're trained to keep your mouths shut or die trying... or did they change protocol while I was away?"

"Wasn't from SHIELD." Clint huffs. "I'm not a normal recruit. I think you know that by now."

Coulson lowers his head. "I expect nothing less than the infamous Hawkeye."

Then, the alarm bells ring. "Fuck." He looks around and sees the last goon's radio is blinking with a ominous red light. "Shit," He curses under his breath while he lock-picks the padlock keeping the chains together. He uses the tie pin to work the tumblers. "Shit. Shit. Shit. I'm sorry, sir." He apologizes. "He must have hit the panic button before I kicked him. Fuck. I should have caved-in his sorry ass before he even moved."

"Focus, Barton." Coulson chastises. "Work now. Apologies later. At least we know part of the reason why Sorensen is after me. Fuck. Now my daughter is caught in the crossfire!"

Clint makes a sound on the back of his throat. "You should have told me about the weapons, sir. I should have done more research than take the information given to me at face value. No one’s goddamn honest in his business anymore."

"I told you the truth. We intercepted a shipment of StarkTech."

"And apparently small calibre weapons from AIM too!" He sneers.

"There weren't supposed to be AIM weapons on the cargo!" Coulson shouts back as he's released. He dusts off the imaginary soot from his shoulders, a clear tell that he's stalling, and Clint let's him. "There wasn't supposed to be AIM weapons on board. That wasn't..." He turns away like he's guilty of something.

Clint shoves him back hard. "The truth, Phil," he says darkly. "I know that, to you, I'm just another asset on the field, another attack dog that Fury's got on pay roll. But here's something about me that I think you should know. I work best when I know all the angles, when I've the information needed. I don't go in blind. I have killed so many people with these hands that I've got more red on my ledger than any of the sorry-assed assets you left behind. That's why he got me. I am Hawkeye. I'm nobody's bitch, not even yours."

Coulson stares at him, assessing. "Okay," the older man says in resignation. "Audrey wanted out. I got her out. AIM used to be a military research arm but was privatized after the Cold War. It used to make weapons solely for the military. But Audrey, she didn't want to continue the family business, she wanted to divert the research into clean energy. She wanted to save lives but her father wouldn't let her."

The alarm bells grew louder.

"Finish your story, Coulson." Clint presses. "How else do you think am I going to believe you?"

"I told you she had a fiancé. I wasn't lying. His name was Martin, Martin Adams, and he was her father's protégé. Audrey didn't want to marry him. I told Fury. They were on the brink of discovering something that was powerful beyond control. If used for weapons, it could cause damage greater than atomic bombs. I took the out. I was a coward. Instead of telling her the truth, I married her and cut off all military contracts. She didn't need any more blood on her hands."

"And Fury?"

"He's been wanting to take back the tech since I married her but I refused. Good, clean energy. I've seen what good men to in the name of peace and security. That's not a world that I want for my daughter. No more Clint. I've seen too many people die. Too many innocent people die as the casualties of conflict. I was on the front lines. I've seen it. If he's after me, then it means that he's after the research. In the wrong hands it can be catastrophic. Help me, please."

"I've already killed for you," Clint says plainly, the bitterness in his voice unconcealed. He grabs the firearms off the two dead men and throws a gun to Coulson's direction. "If there's one thing I understand, it's the need to clear the red from your ledger. Mine ain't any less bloody. I'm doing this for Izzy, sir, not for you. Then afterwards, I'm going to ask to be reassigned permanently out of New York. Is that clear?"

Coulson makes a pained sound in the back of his throat. "Clint, I swear. There's nothing else. No more lies. No more secrets."

Clint lifts a hand and makes him stop speaking. "I've heard enough. I know what it's like living in a lie. After a long time, you start believing in it." He lowers his head. "You don't have to keep lying to me for me to help you, sir. This is my job after all. Whether or not I slept with you, I would have still done my goddamn hardest to get them both back alive, to get you all out of this mess alive. That's a promise." He stops a listens to the footsteps as they move closer to their position.

"They're going to be here in a few seconds." He says, clocking his gun. "Are you going to gape like a fish or are you going to help me shoot out way out of here, old man?" Later, he thinks, later they will talk about this. Later, once he's digested everything he's learned from the older man, he might just forgive him. Later, they will have so many things to talk about. But for now, they have a mission to do.

Coulson's only reply is to click the safety off his own gun.

Then, the guns come a-blazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hohoho~ Merry Christmas! 
> 
> I finally got time to write another chapter for this story~ Yay! Hope the holiday season's got you more generous with your comments or kudos, if you like the story~ :D

**Author's Note:**

> [ **Got a prompt?** ](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/)


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